


Not Quite in his Right Mind

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Concussions, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, John is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Medical Conditions, Medical Procedures, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is impatient, flight of ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5251022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A complete short story in which Sherlock is injured during a case, John is summoned to the hospital, and neither one copes very well until Sherlock is improving.</p><p>++</p><p>“It’s Sherlock,” came the voice on the other end of the phone.  John felt that sinking feeling of nausea suck the very wind from him.  “You need to come.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apnea is indeed Problematic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ds862](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ds862/gifts).



> Quick explanation: the story is complete in chapters 1-8. Chapters 9-13 are scenes that are parallel in the story, from a different perspective. They are short and obviously optional.

Footsteps echoed down the alley as Sherlock gave chase, his long legs pumping, breathing remotely hard after several blocks, coat flying (probably increasing drag as wind resistance could not possibly be helping, he knew, but adamantly refused to give it up, even when John offered to rent a wind tunnel, anemometer, and fog machine to prove it to him).  The mist hung cold over the kerb, hovering and lingering over the more damp areas as the temperature continued to fall.   _Another reason I can’t give up the Belstaff,_ he groused inwardly _, was for frostbite prevention in the cold London air.  Have to tell John_...

He approached the corner, knowing he was closing the gap between himself and that of the lowlife he was chasing, based on echolocation and distance of the staccato footsteps ahead.  Frost had begun to form on the cooler surfaces as he reached out a gloved hand to steady himself as he sprinted around the next corner.  Lestrade was supposed to be circling around by car as Sherlock was to be herding the criminal toward the edges of town, and Sherlock hoped the motor he heard in the distance meant Lestrade was close.  A few leaves had blown onto the kerb, out of Sherlock’s sight until it was too late, and he trod heavy on them, slipped.  His head smartly struck the edge of a step there in the alley, and the man he’d been gaining on heard the impact, then slowed, turned, approached, and was now standing in front of him.  Pain exploded over the back of his head, hot liquid, exquisite white noise, pounding in his ears, followed by...  Nothing.

++

_Oh holy shit, get over here, don’t move, God, look at all that blood, where the hell are they, don’t touch that._  

The words all ramble together in the darkness and are tangled, nonsense, off in the distance, down a tunnel, from under a closed door with a pillow over his head, he thinks.  Flight of ideas, then, his head, which bloody hurts, god, the posterior fossa, on fire, split open, good god are brains leaking down over my eyes and there is viscous fluid pooling in my ear making hearing almost impossible, sounds amplified oddly.  Probably cerebral-spinal fluid, and that’s a bad sign, he acknowledges, thinking that his head is open, good god all he wanted was to catch this miscreant and now his thoughts turn, _oh my, they got me and oh god they’re hurting me, holding me down, and I am in deep shit.  the case will never get solved, Lestrade will never get this vital information - and I can’t remember it right now anyway.  god, the case!_

_there was a case of bottled water at Tesco_

_Tesco is where John buys milk and nicotine patches_

_John..._

_the man I was chasing had an embroidered patch on his shoulder_

_wet leaves that are pressed against my face smell like mouldy books in the school library_

_there are arms and legs and voices and holding me and i’m trying to speak and open my eyes and i can’t even do that, can’t call for help, mobile likely in my breast pocket, can hardly wake up enough.  either my tongue is swollen or my throat - no noise is produced no matter the dysfunction.  my worst nightmare would be for my brain and my body to be disconnected, and i have ended up in that very predicament. there is moving and dragging and oh shit they are hiding me and no one will find me and can’t reach me and what is that ridiculously loud clicking.  straps across me but i can’t move anyway and i must have brain damage because my eyes won’t open and my teeth are clenched  and there’s something over my face and god i’m going to suffocate._

_i wouldn’t expect worthless criminals to figure out forcing iv drug abuse on a person, but somehow they are managing, my sleeve ripped, cool alcohol over the antecubital vein and a piercing.  large bore needle, lots of pain on the beveled needle, then,_ bloody amateurs _, and this cacophony of sounds and there is coolness traversing my arm as whatever drug is forced into my vein travels through the brachial plexus toward the shoulder where disbursement into deeper vessels make sensation further impossible.  sedative, stimulant, mood-altering, recreational, amnesic, lethal injection - could be any of the above but the tunnel is getting longer and quieter and I should try to remember to keep breathing, because apnea is problematic, and there is the slamming of a loud metal door and rumbling beneath me and shaking and now ..._    Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.


	2. He's not Terrible if you Leave him Alone

John’s mobile buzzed on the nightstand, and he rolled over to answer even as he snaked out a leg, checking - not unusually - if Sherlock has returned home or not.  The opposite side of the bed is empty and cold.  They’d been sharing a flat a couple of years, since his sham of a marriage to the-woman-who-shall-be-nameless-since-we-don't-know-her-real-name dissolved, sharing a bed not quite that long.  The deliberate set-up of Sherlock regarding the deduction of a non-existent pregnancy, well, that was a sore subject still, and John only reminded him of that during times of _extreme_ desperation.

Caller ID, the hospital.  Interesting.  Usually it was Lestrade demanding he come do something about Sherlock, or Sherlock demanding the opposite.  Rarely anyone else, but he knew immediately it had to do with Sherlock, as if it would ever be anything else at this hour.

“John Watson.”  He sat up, the change of position engaging synapses and motor function, knowing that alertness and coherency on the mobile were good partners.

“John, it’s Brian Templeton.”  One of the A&E docs, then.  Their paths had crossed from time to time with some of John’s referrals from the clinic he worked at on a semi-casual rotation. The clinic was just down the hall, same building, it's own outside entrance.  “You awake?”  His tone was somber, urgent.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Sherlock's here at A&E,” came the voice.  John felt that sinking feeling of nausea suck the very wind from him.  “You need to come.”

John fussed at the mobile, quickly switching it to speaker as he set it down on the dresser, fumbling with his fingers, grabbing clothing.  “Tell me,” he said, wheels turning.  He’d been working with Greg late yesterday, right?  His heart was pounding out a rhythm that he could feel, stroke volume elevated, perfusing his overly focused brain as he wanted, needed, had to get to the hospital, to Sherlock, to see for himself what was going on.

The words were quick, quiet, direct.  “Head injury, big scalp lac, posterior.  Blood loss.  Agitated, out of his head at the moment, non-verbal.  Sending him for CT now.”  There was background noise, John could hear the monitors alarming, some voices raised, and then Brian offered a clipped, “Gotta run.”  As much as John was annoyed at the sudden disconnect, he knew the urgency in Brian’s tone, knew the reason wasn’t good, and preferred of course that Sherlock be tended instead of wasting time on updating John further.  He slid into his clothing, hands shaking just a bit.  John smirked at himself when he saw that,  _bit unusual, there, stressful situations just don’t do that to me_.

John was fairly certain he picked up a cab a block or so away from the flat, but would have been sketchy on the details, as he found Brian in the A&E at the doorway of a darkened room, where his flatmate lay.  John’s trained eyes and heightened alertness took in all he could, the cardiac monitor (sinus tach 130′s, 149/89, respiratory rate 30, pulse ox off his finger, too agitated, obviously), skin color flushed pink, diaphoretic, muscle tone tense.  All four extremities were strapped to the stretcher.  Sherlock’s eyes were closed, hair wild, a bloody drape under his head.  Intermittently he would test the restraints in turn, twisting an arm, pulling back on a leg, adjusting the angle, trying again.  One of the nurses stood by for the random times he would try to sit up, fling himself off to the side.  She wasn’t speaking much, only enough to safely, firmly guide the patient back onto the bed and prevent further injury.  Sherlock was a 1:1 observation, then, and for that, John was both grateful and alarmed.

Although, a segment of his brain acknowledged, when Sherlock was in a bloody uncooperative mood, bored, restless, or sassy, he should be a 1:1 outside of the hospital setting as well.  He wondered where Lestrade had been, where he was now.  Between the pair of them, John and Greg, they managed to keep Sherlock out of serious trouble most of the time.

“CT?” John asked quietly.

“No haemorrhage.  Study suboptimal due to artifact.”  He made a gesture at the patient as if to punctuate the sentence with ‘obviously’.  “No clear fluid in the ear or nose.”  John was relieved and grateful that Brian was answering the questions to save John from actually asking.  Fluid would have indicated possible skull fracture with leaking cerebro-spinal fluid.  “Concussion based on symptoms and presentation.”  Brian gestured at the suture tray at the ready, said somewhat apologetically, “He becomes combative as soon as anyone touches him.  Severely photophobic but pupils are reactive.  Calmer in the restraints.  We’re getting ready to suture.”

++

Hostile hands touched him from time to time, ready to hurt him, cut him, starting on his arms and legs but he knew it was only a matter of time before they smothered him, enemy hands ready to bring about his death by suffocation.  For a bit, there were hands holding his head, poking at what he could only imagine was a gaping hole, jaggedness evident in that the perpetrators were attempting to enlarge it, ripping flesh from skull.  His eyes and voice still not cooperating, although there were inhuman feral growling that he didn’t think came from his own body - _how undignified could he have fallen, after all_?  When the hands, warm, strong, relentless hands, left him alone, he stilled, but he was going to fight for all he was worth until there was no fight left.  He felt completely beaten, sore in every muscle, each extremity, and the pounding at the base of his skull throbbed with each bloody beat of his heart.  Sticky warmth at the back of his head, he knew, also not a good sign.  It had been some time since someone had pried open his eyes again, the light painfully bright, sharply piercing, a burning intensity of pain.  

Movement in the room, he pulled again at the forces holding him captive - wrists, ankles bound, at least this time was not the cutting sharpness of the thin plastic wire ties or piano wire.  And they knew his name, kept calling him by it.  Significant, he knew, and likely more dangerous for him - it was personal.  The harm they intended to inflict was going to cost him dearly.  John was not going to be pleased that he’d stepped into danger, again.  John...  He pushed past that, the pain was already bad enough.  Anger would be better...

Where was Lestrade?  Shouldn’t he have found him by now?  Damn the incompetence of London’s supposed finest.  A strong hand with solid fingers touched his shoulder, and he felt his body jerk, responding to the threat of injury, his mind perceiving the slightest touch as imminent danger.  The pounding in his head grew stronger, closer as the sounds from the rest of the crime scene faded down the tunnel, his body flailing to try to thrust off the enemy’s advances.  The pain in his head, then, throbbing, pounding, beating, hammering as the whiteness enveloped all of his wakefulness, to where all he could hear was the thrumming of his brain leaking out of his skull as it kept time with his pulse.

++

For all John’s thinking he’d seen it all, he found this setting, these players, this drama unfolding in front of him especially unnerving.  Lestrade appeared at John’s side, watching, apologising for not personally calling John, but they were wrapping up an active crime scene at the time the ambulance left with Sherlock.  He complained that the plan had not gone on well, apparently the man Sherlock’d been chasing ended up being in cahoots with a few others, and a few unexpected turns, Sherlock deviating from the plan...  John tuned him out, then, assured him he was going to be fine, really.  Greg could tell, obviously, that John’s focus was elsewhere, and backed off.  He promised to be in touch, to stop by again, and asked John to let him know if they needed anything.  John nodded, his eyes riveted to the nurse who held Sherlock’s shoulder down even as he twisted, panicking, clearly driven by some perceived threat, and he stepped to the darkened bedside to help.

The slightest touch of his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder set off wildly agitated flailing, despite low spoken reassurance, introduction, and calming words it was as if Sherlock was deaf, non-interactive, and essentially unresponsive to command.  Any tactile stimulation, light, firm, all of it, triggered this response, Brian informed him.  John backed off then, watching vital signs settle down slightly, everything still elevated from what he knew was the norm, but less so.  The calmer the environment, the slower his heart rate and more relaxed his tense muscles grew.  The bloody pad under his still bleeding scalp grew slightly more saturated from this latest round of energy burst, and John touched the pillow only in order to visualize the wound edges slightly better without actually touching Sherlock’s severed scalp.

He crossed the room again, taking care to keep the noise down, stood by Brian again as the nurse at his side silently checked on the IV and dimmed the lights even more now that John had seen what he’d needed to.

“Want me to hold while you suture?” John offered.

“Might need a headlock to hold him still enough.”

John shook his head.  “Amazed you got a CT scan at all, the way he is.”

“He’s not terrible if you leave him alone.”

John couldn’t stop the inappropriate snicker.  “Story of my life, there.”  He slid his jacket off, shrugged a bit at Brian.  “I can hold if you’re game.  Probably have to tie him on his side first so you can work back there.”

Brian’s arms were crossed as he looked from John to Sherlock and back.  Brian ticked off a quick list, for both of them. “Seven cm gash, irregular.  Cleaning.  Maybe 15 sutures.  I need at least five minutes.  I'll try lido without epi if I can.”  The numbing medicine he referred to would require steady hands all around, but with any luck would make the process easier and eventually give Sherlock some local pain relief.  John sighed, though, because holding a thrashing crocodile for five minutes was going to be next to impossible.  

“I’ll try.”  

Liane, one of the nurses, was standing there as well, ready to be of assistance in the event she was needed.  She was petite, rail thin, barely five foot, and she leaned in conspiratorily, said, “I’ll spot you John, if you get tired.  I’m sure I can take him.”  She flexed, showing off toned although tiny biceps, even as they all chuckled low.  John didn’t doubt that she was strong, and appreciated her assertiveness, but doubted that any of them, singularly, would be successful.  The crocodile in the bed was now gnashing his teeth, giving an occasional ineffective flail from time to time.

“Deal,” he said, needing the comic relief.

“But you’re doing the foley.”  She referred to the urinary catheter that sometimes needed to be placed in circumstances such as these in order to check for substance abuse and prevent bladder distention particularly with the altered sensorium Sherlock was displaying.

John blinked, swallowed, looking slightly unenthused.  “Sutures first, then we’ll see.”

Brian set up his work table, adjusted the height of the bed, pulled over the bright procedure light, donned gloves before any of them touched Sherlock, knowing that once they started, they were committed to seeing it through.  Another nurse came in then to help as they prepared to poke the sleeping bear, and before they started anything, they all looked at each other with serious intent over Sherlock’s tense form as he lay there, oblivious and unsuspecting.  It was like being in a football huddle on the pitch,  _Readyyyyyy, Break_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always appreciated. I've never done chapters this short before, and am kind of enjoying it!
> 
> And thanks ds862 for the question about the lidocaine. Initially, I decided to suture without lido, but then thought, even though at the bedside it might be impractical, add too much time to an already agitated situation, and likely not even work until after the procedure was over, it sounded humane so I added it back in. I chose lido without epinephrine, as our patient is already tachycardic and despite what the literature says, I have seen tachycardia exacerbated with subcutaneous lido with epi. Apologies for not being more compassionate on the first run-through!


	3. Sherlock's First Word Breaks John's Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a graphic chapter, but does go into a very small bit of detail about wound irrigation and suturing. A bit more medically descriptive than intended, some of it from the brain injured PoV.

Sensations of something about to happen, the wriggle of the lionine hunter’s hindquarters right before the pounce, mounting tension in the room, coordination of efforts, he could almost feel the aura, the intent, the fear as the car crests the peak on a bloody roller coaster.  The hands returned, he was in deep shit now, the traitorous body - _bloody fucking transport_ \- was defying him, failing him.  He had no idea how much or how little he was effectively fighting anything off, forces holding him down, he was clearly outnumbered and outranked and out-powered and outdone.  He was wrenched on his side, his back arching, legs tightened, he was coiled forcibly into a foetal position, on his side.  God, he flung and flailed, pushing with all his might trying to straighten his legs, his twisted body.  But sweet mother of god, the head pain, the pounding, throbbing.  Strength giving out, he could only writhe for so long before he was held down, coercively subdued, strapped fast, restrained.  Solid body and arms held him, he counted at least six hands.  The back of his head tipped forward, pain igniting from the perceived split in his skull, the throbbing and hair pulling and leaning forward.  

 _warmth on the back of my head, as if from radiant heat source. rubbery sounding fingertips are grabbing, pulling. cool fluid at the uppermost head, why on earth would anyone --- holy shit, the burning! acid poured into my wound, why on earth? even in Serbia, there was never this much madness._  

He racked his very out of balance neurons, neurotransmitters working overtime, pain receptors completely triggered.  He'd spilled acid on himself before, a few times deliberately despite John's liberal use of the word idiot when observing and then treating the burns. Hydrochloric acid from his chemistry lab, probably not. Acetic acid, found in vinegar, didn't burn quite this badly. Drain cleaner, then or battery acid, he wondered? 

_Sulfuric acid, then, and now the liquid has stopped, i am still on fire, burning in an irregular shape, inflammatory processes initiated, there is still hair pulling and now pressing against the point-tender, hypersensitive, scorched area..._

And then cutting, splitting, pin-pricking fire at the edges of the already painful wound.   _Too late_ , he felt, _I’m done for_.  Part of his brain already was waiting for the expected bone-saw that could cut into his beloved cranial vault before mercifully killing him, rendering him into exquisite agony before perforating then severing brainstem, where respiratory arrest would occur, doing away with him completely.  He almost waited for the smothering hands to come next, as it occurred to him that the only thing he could do unimpeded was breathe.  There was at least one hand in biting distance if only he could wrench his head to reach it, but when he tried, there was yelling, and a firm hand pushed his jaw onto the surface he lay on.  Curled inward, the back of his head on fire, he wondered about what he was hit over the head with.  The crime would go unsolved, would serve buggering Lestrade right for not rescuing him.  John would be furious that Lestrade had failed them both.

Pain at the back of his head, he could move his body not at all, such were the clamps, vice grips holding down limbs and head, still, unmoving, held completely against his will in a vulnerable position by an unknown, merciless enemy.  But his voice freed up, somehow, and he found a word, called for help, hearing the hoarseness and the desperation and the absolute agony and the helplessness.  And the only word that actually uttered from his mouth, a soulful expression of the deepest pain and heartbreak came out “John!”  Over, and over, and over.  And John never came to save him.

++

Wound irrigation, sixteen sutures, six minutes, all of them torture.  Agonizing, painful, gut-wrenching torture.  Brian placed the final stitch, clipping the final mattress suture close, hemostat clanking on the tray with relief and finality.  Brian dabbed the suture line with saline-soaked gauze, leaving it open to air, having chosen not to clip the hair that would invariably now, at some point, need to be trimmed, cut, cleansed.  But not now.  He was wrung out with the raw emotion and raw flesh and raw pain in the room.  Around the lump in his throat - and he was a seasoned A&E doc with a lot of _good_ trauma stories - he could not look John in the eye.

John had eased one arm under Sherlock’s shoulders and head, holding tightly the wounded head and holding it clasped securely so that the rough edges of Sherlock’s scalp could be approximated, closed.  He manoeuvered carefully to give Brian the best visual field, avoided the biting motion when Sherlock launched a frenzied parry of activity, in survival mode he was now, clearly Sherlock had no clue where he was and what was happening.  The sutures completed, John had relaxed only enough to ease his body out and now stood, not touching, at the head of the stretcher.   He stared, his brain overloaded with what he'd heard, not just the word but the gut-wrenching agony in the tone.

The nurse, Liane, who had stayed to help, untied the limbs that had been crossed in front of the wounded man, returning him to a supine position on the bed.  They slid a clean pad under his head, fresh pillow, then left Sherlock untouched.  The moans that were still emitting were quieter with less stimulation, quieter with the pain easing, lights dimmed.  She spoke quickly to Brian and John, said that she would return if needed, escaped from the room.  The glass doors which had been tightly closed against the sound, eased open, closed again as she left.

Brian stood, the room tightly packed with angst, emotion, drama, and the oppressive need to leave.  He didn’t know how John was able to stand that, the pain in the broken voice calling his name.  He spoke curtly, quietly, to John, echoing Liane’s words that he would return, left the room.

The sounds had slowed, diminished in volume and intensity, stilled as he became solitary again, untouched.  The calling of his name in the room,  _John! John! John!_ in the heartbroken tones reminiscent of a child abandoned and bereft and betrayed, the visceral pain evident in the vocalisations.  John had held on while the procedure was in progress because he had to, because it was in Sherlock’s best interest, because he wore the medical hat and assumed the role of competently doing what needed to be done, to _soldier on_.

And now?  John’s shoulders sagged under the stress of what he’d done, what he’d had to do, of the obvious betrayal of Sherlock’s broken mind and spirit, presently anyway.   _Temporarily_ , he assured himself.  It was temporary.  Sherlock would not remember this, and John would never tell him.  John would bribe everyone in the department to purge this from memory, delete it, never mention it ever again.  He was relieved Greg had left, that Mycroft wasn't present. He would shoulder this nightmare of a memory alone.

He didn’t think his heart could bear to be broken like that ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else want to just give poor John a hug right about now?


	4. Welcome to the ICU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief description of another medical procedure, not too graphic, but certainly we can all figure out what is going on. John has gentle hands, I promise.

An altered mental status such as Sherlock’s, particularly in the aftermath of a traumatic attack, warranted an ICU admission, and orders were written quickly.  The admitting doc, stationed there in the A&E, reviewed the plan with Brian and John as Sherlock twitched, moaned, lay there, waiting.  Brian had stood with John outside the room when John found the oppressiveness of the room too much to handle, left, standing outside the glass, just watching.  He spoke nothing to John, there were no words, touched his back briefly in support. 

John finally broke the silence.  “Wherever the hell Sherlock is right now, it’s nowhere pleasant, is it?”  

Eventually, John followed the stretcher as Sherlock was rolled into the farthest corner, the quietest corner, of the ICU.  He didn’t listen to the report from the nurses, didn’t want to hear the story retold; his own perspective was traumatising enough.

Nowhere pleasant continued to be the name of the game.

++

_motion, in motion, squeakiness and the altered sensorium of motion sickness, moving when the room wasn't, spinning, vertigo, vestibular system disorientation, kinetosis.  i can sense that i am being relocated despite being unable to confirm visually.  i am pale, a new sensation, maybe i've never felt pale before, but i am devoid of color and devoid of hope and there is nausea, vagal nerve stimulation, and i can feel my heart rate slowing - 130-100 - too quickly, symptomatic, a cold sweat - 65-45 - and the dizziness flattening me down onto this surface, and i am sinking into the floor, collapsing in on my very being, beneath the building of my captivity.  there is a rolling wave of bilious stomach contents - bloody buggering transport betrayal...  must prevent aspiration_

++

The vomiting occurred just after three staff members plus John slid Sherlock from A&E stretcher to ICU bed.  John associated the movements of the bed occupant somehow of an electrified octopus, limbs flailing stiffly, a desperate attempt to turn sideways, fighting anything within reach, panicking.  There was more heaving than actual projectile liquids, but enough to bring an additional nurse with an armful of linens.  

One of the nurses made eye contact, sympathetically, with John.  All John could do was shrug and say, "Concussion'll do that."

It took four of them to wipe, wash, and safely contain the agitated movements.  The nurse across from John finished tucking in the clean sheets, gestured for John to roll him over as he secured both arm and leg on the side opposite John.  "I'm Jason, his nurse tonight, Dr. Watson."   _  
_

"John, please."  John pulled the old sheets through while another staff member finished wiping his skin.  The mildly scented, heated chlorhexidine wipes, Jason explained, were antimicrobial and allowed to dry, protecting both intact and abraded skin from infection.   Jason connected a suction toothbrush, cleaned out Sherlock's mouth and tongue - which led to the abrupt and violent thrashing that they'd noticed when trying to assess pupillary response.  John knew Brian had assessed pupils in the A&E, that there was no structural damage. There were additional wounds discovered, abrasions on his calf and iliac crest, as well as ugly bruising on his right fingertips and shoulder.  Performing a quick assessment, Jason was confident and gentle, attempting to cluster activity to minimise overstimulation. Sherlock wrestled against the restraints, moaned a few times, but the severe agitation abated. He was shivering by the end of the bath, but even that settled down when warm blankets were applied.  "There should be zofran in the admission orders," John offered.

"If he vomits again," Jason said, nodding agreement. Anti-emetics were effective, but adding unnecessary medications could make delirium and agitation assessment difficult.  Plus, John knew, if he had a reaction to it, it would be difficult to tell in this non-communicative state.  Hopefully a one and done event.

There in the ICU, every stimulation and touch led to further unhappiness and discomfort and physical reactivity, pulling against straps and other measures designed to keep him from hurting himself.  When he pulled hard against the restraints, John stepped to his side, spoke, and that only seemed to make him worse.  In varying turns, he pulled an extremity tight against the bedframe, testing the limits of each restraint. Nowhere pleasant, indeed.

Jason asked about John's current role in the clinic, swapped a few casual pleasantries quietly at the bedside, as they both got the feel for each other, and for the plan of care for the patient.  Although the clinic John worked in rarely sent patients directly to the ICU, it had happened over the past six months that John had been working there, and clearly, the staff either heard of him or knew his name.  IV fluids changed, a dose of IV paracetamol for pain, and Jason took the moment to bring a portable computer to the room, to complete the admission with John's help and to review orders with him.  John crossed to the bed again as Sherlock attempted to sit up, groaning as his head apparently was paining him, and then flopped back on the pillow.

Jason spoke. “The paracetamol should help soon, I hope.”  John nodded, watching Sherlock test the restraint on his right dominant hand.  "You know you're welcome to stay, John.  Once he wakes up, I'm sure he'll be better behaved for you."

“Sure.” John almost laughed, thought about correcting him, decided to let it go. After a bit, John and Sherlock were again alone in the room, and John watched carefully as Sherlock seemed, for the moment, to be lightly resting for the first time.  It only lasted a few moments before Sherlock was jerking both arms hard enough to rattle the bed frame.

++

_iv fluid awareness again, bizarre and it makes no sense, but whatever is cooling and infusing is also dulling my senses, and this floating is unacceptable if i'm to reason my way out and ensure my existence until John gets his sorry arse out of bed to track me down._

_any time now, John._

_my head seems to be throbbing at a distance now, synapses lazy and sluggish. perhaps if i just thrash a bit more i can manoeuver my arm free from it's bond and stop this drug-induced madness_

_++_

A urine toxicology screen had been ordered on admission, and when Jason offered John the task, he full stop balked.  Initially.  So Jason offered him the option of leaving the room or helping hold Sherlock, and at that, John reconsidered.  He asked Jason to secure an indwelling catheter, rather than an intermittent one that possibly would need repeating in six or eight hours.  Both agreed, watching the restlessness of the patient, that putting Sherlock through this more than once was best avoided if possible. John set to task quickly as Jason assisted, knowing the procedure was uncomfortable and not at all understood, but thankfully brief.  John was reminded of treating his buddies in Afghanistan when the circumstances necessitated it, that compartmentalisation was required to perform competently, and John maintained his military discipline now as he'd done then - by ignoring the personal connection. Not that it was easy, with the thrashing, monitor alarms, and the depth of the pain in the tortured sounds coming from Sherlock. John found himself grateful he was inside the room, even as a participant, because to listen to _that_ from elsewhere (and he knew it was readily carrying through the unit) would have been upsetting on many fronts, imagining the worst.  Once the catheter was in, specimen sent, Sherlock actually seemed to calm down.  The large amount of urine that drained and the resulting calmness that followed, had John wondering if perhaps being uncomfortable was contributing to the agitation, that maybe now that he’d obtained relief, he would be able to rest.

++

Sexual assault had never been something Sherlock had ever personally encountered, much less worried about, but as awareness rose again, the pounding in his head became secondary as he felt air touch his bare skin, coldness and wetness and then distinct pressure, hands touching him in ways they shouldn’t, strong hands holding his shoulders and hips down, poking and prodding in ways he abhorred, painful, invasive, terrifying.  His voice was regaining strength, and although he was hoarse even to his own ears, the bellowing should have summonsed help from somewhere.  The acoustics of the room, he found, were different, smaller and tighter than earlier, the voices urging him, wrapping around him, the stimulation of hands, sounds, pain, brutal assault coupled with the harsh throbbing - that once the hands had been removed, mostly removed, there was still something foreign and horrible remaining, he was distantly aware of it, but, resigned, he let his voice grow quiet.  No one was coming; there would be no rescue, no relief, no reprieve, although the sharp pain was fading.  Much of his brain just wished they would kill him and get it over with.  

He thought of John, warm, steady, dependable John.  John, who would never allow him to be hurt like this, if he knew. Probably hadn’t even missed him yet.  

_odd that, despite this current predicament - this sodding nightmare - i can still get the sensation of John being near, and his scent is present and warm and there is the smallest amount of comfort, that association.  there is radiant warmth over me, as if John and i are nestled under the duvet. god, i just want to be back there, in John's arms, on Baker Street where i belong.  John, please, please, i'm begging for mercy. twice._

He tried to open his eyes, couldn’t, pain stabbing at his eyes at the first intimation of light.  The room he was in, mostly, however, was now dimmer, he could tell from behind his eyelids, and his captors left him alone again.  The pounding in his head wouldn’t stop, his thoughts muddy and confusing.  Sensation was altered, he was aware of being not completely aware, blissed out except anything but blissed out - not quite all there.  John had to find him.  Before it was too late.

++

The admission, other than that, was smooth.  Jason closed the door after pushing a recliner into the room along with blanket and pillow.  John angled the recliner so he could see both patient, monitor, and door, settled into it.  His eyes were wide in the darkened room as he watched Sherlock’s restlessness and disquiet.  He texted Mycroft while waiting, who actually knew and was just arriving at the hospital.  John could have rolled his eyes, of course Mycroft bloody knew.  Before long, Sherlock’s brother arrived with a quiet knock on the door.  He slid into the room, eye contact made, and quietly stood at the edge of the bed, watching John watch both of the Holmes’ boys from his vantage point in the recliner.  The monitor, John kept a close eye on.  Sherlock seemed to be sleeping lightly, heart rate elevating when Mycroft had arrived but no further agitation.  Mycroft didn't stay long, and departed as stealthily as he’d come, advising John that he would of course be monitoring the situation closely.  

John’d already cautioned the nursing staff that he would take care of the restraint situation, moving limbs every two hours, checking skin, more often if Sherlock seemed awake or uncomfortable.  A neurologist had been consulted on admission, and John was pleased when the doctor arrived.  He agreed with John that this was temporary, trauma related, and would most likely clear over time. They discussed that the presence of even low-grade fever would necessitate lumbar puncture to rule out meningitis. They would repeat the CT scan if needed in another day or so if things were no better.  The next shift arrived, and John watched, a curious bystander, the change of shift routine as the nurses arrived at bedside to perform the change-of-shift neuro check together. It was disconcerting as they verified that what the previous nurse observed was still the case in the present, watching, John knew, for signs of subdural hematoma or herniation or anything that indicated neurologic deterioration.

The agitation present in the A&E was less, although stimulation through touch still provoked a willful withdraw and quiet struggling to pull away.  Pupillary checks were impossible, as Sherlock, still photophobic, flung his head side to side, thrashing, and clearly the light bothered his eyes to an extreme degree. Each time one of the nurses came in to either assess or provide care, change sweaty sheets, hang a new IV bag, or give medication, Sherlock ramped up, his agitation returning.  He was responding to stimuli purposefully but not interacting meaningfully.  Later, John’s co-worker from the clinic, Mark, poked his head in, brought John something to eat.

“Heard you were here."  John got up, crossed to the door in order to minimize noise, greeting the other physician.  "I'm heading out.  Can I get you anything?” he asked, and when John shook his head, he gestured back at the patient. "Let me know.  Oh, and we covered your shifts this week, figured that was ok.”  When John smiled gratefully, Mark commented at the door that perhaps John should just bloody tell him to wake up and be done with this. Part of John agreed, knowing Sherlock's brain, even concussed, on some level, might be actively paying attention.  

The next time Sherlock seemed a bit lighter and slightly more relaxed, John engaged the help of Sherlock’s nurse, just to have someone standing by in case things went awry, as he repositioned restraints with the intent to leave one or two off if they were no longer needed.  When he untied Sherlock’s legs, rubbing gently and providing some passive range of motion to alleviate the stiffness, he was pleased to find that touch no longer seemed to be the negative impetus that had been evident previously.  John untied one arm then, still without touching too much or causing sensory overload.  Sherlock immediately flung that arm over his eyes, a characteristic and _purposeful_ response, one that confirmed to John that his eyes, his optic nerve pathways to the brain, were still particularly light sensitive.

Speaking, however, seemed to stimulate him too much, and when Sherlock bolted upright, trying to fling his legs out over the siderails, the nurse and John both had their hands full trying to keep him safe and in bed.  They settled for tying opposite extremities, and John sat back in the recliner, out of the way, ready if needed, vigilant.  

Eventually, Sherlock settled, breathing evened out, and in the coming hours John managed to nod off a few times.  It was not a restful sleep for either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I'm waking him up in the next chapter. Promise!!
> 
> It is not unusual for someone who is vomiting to feel dizzy or nearly pass out due to vasovagal syncope. This is, as even Sherlock's injured brain recalls, due to vagal nerve stimulation. The vagus nerve (the 10th cranial nerve) wanders throughout the entire body, from the brainstem, through the lungs, and enervates heart and entire digestive tract. 
> 
> IV acetaminophen or paracetamol (Ofirmev) is expensive but very effective. An adult extra strength dose, 1000 mg, is given over 15 minutes and is typically rapidly effective. It is used in the US to treat fever, pain, and as an around the clock adjunct to post-operative pain control. Patients do report what Sherlock describes - a sense of relaxed apathy.
> 
> Let me know if I missed something. I have never edited a chapter as much as I've done with this one!


	5. Tonight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is quite a distinction between picking your battles and choosing which hill to die on. John and Sherlock have quite different strategies, as this chapter reveals.
> 
> Thanks ds862 for quickly turning around a proofread on this chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those following along. I confess I've been wanting to rush this chapter out, just to show some healing progress with the head injury and assure you that everything's ok. So this is me, coming alongside you, offering a whisper from the tired man keeping vigil at the bedside, and a quiet, verbal response from the head on the pillow.

There had been a reprieve, although brief, where his limbs seemed to belong to him.  They were heavy in ways he’d never experienced, though, and he had little control over them.  But escape loomed right in front of him, and getting away was his only thought.  Twisting his body, he plunged toward a sensation of open area, contacted human flesh, an elbow, and too many words yelling directions at him. But the words were just noise, nonsensical.  The pain in his head throbbed when he flailed, eased some when he stopped.  Exhausted, he slipped deeper again.  Sleep when it came, was not restorative, and he awoke in a bit of a panic, limbs held, eyes and throat raw.

The tunnel finally seemed shorter, his brain and body less disconnected.  He heard the quiet sounds of his own breathing, finding, finally, that the pounding in the back of his head had dulled.  One arm - _newly damaged? odd, tingling, interesting, no acute pain -_ and a leg failed to respond to typical triggers to move and reposition.  The numbness eased some as he twisted and then untwisted his body.  There were none of the enemy, at present anyway, touching him.  His voice, on clearing his throat, seemed like it might respond, and his eyes seemed as if they’d improved.  He wasn't sure if the room was completely dark, but upon opening his eyes, he found they were still sensitive to the faintest light in the room.  He decided to try out his speech center if his dry mouth would cooperate.

++

John had been staring at the form in the bed for so long that when things seemed somehow different, he thought at first he was imagining it. Sound and motion from the bed a few feet away pricked at his consciousness, something changed about the breathing pattern and the muscle tone.  “Sherlock?” he breathed the name, in something of a whisper.

“John.”  He heard his name, barely a breath, thought it a dream.  “John.”  The voice insisted, and John leaned up on an elbow.  Sherlock was twisted on his side, the limb restraints pulling him at awkward angles and lines.  His hips tilted one way, shoulders another.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“What the hell?”  He tugged at the arm that was tied, noting counter pressure on the opposing leg.  John stood, then came quickly to his side, untying straps as he arrived, a simple tug all that was required.  

“How are you feeling?”

He moaned a bit, his arm now thrown over his eyes.  It was still dark through the window, the unit outside the door quiet (although John knew better than to utter _that_ word around a nurse), and the high pitched heart rate alarm sounded as Sherlock awakened fully. John suspended the alarm as he stood there, the immediate muting of the sound a welcome respite.  “God, _my head_.”  John guided the other hand that sought the source of the pain, allowing fingers to just barely touch the prickly row of sutures.

“Sutures.  And a concussion.” He said quietly as he eased Sherlock’s probing fingers away from his wound. “It’s Thursday.”  John said, almost stupidly, not sure how much processing was going on.  

"Home?”

“We’re not home.  Hospital.”

“ _Home_.”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

The curtain opened, then, allowing entrance of Jason, Sherlock’s nurse again for the shift.   John, with a relieved smile, took a step back from the bedside as Jason assessed the scene. “Thought maybe you were back with us,” he said quietly, asking a few questions while cycling another blood pressure, then removing all but the ECG leads.  A glass of water was delivered, and Sherlock tolerated the liquid without coughing or vomiting.  Sherlock answered Jason’s queries quietly, calmly, the simple questions - name, date of birth, year, prime minister.  John felt his breath hitch and then release as it became apparent Sherlock was largely intact.  He was missing some pre-event details, the assault completely, and recalled nothing of the hospitalisation to this moment.  Or so he said.  He was sneaky enough, that even with a current head injury, John knew that Sherlock was still quite capable of very credible deception.

The neurologist, Dr. Evans, arrived then, talked Sherlock through a brief neuro assessment, and other than not knowing how long he’d been there, the date or time, he was completely oriented.  His visual fields were intact, as far as they could tell in the dim light, movement and sensation was normal.  The neurologist seemed pleased.  “Like flipping a switch, here you are again.”  He pulled his notes from his earlier visit from his pocket.  “Tox screen was negative, CT scan fine, concussion for sure.  Mild TBI, altered mental status, and scalp sutures.”  He chatted a few more minutes, filling in some of the holes, then finally said, “Maybe send you home tomorrow.”

“Tonight.”   There was some insistence to the tone.

“We may have preferred him unresponsive,” John quipped.

“Oi, fuck you,” he growled at John.   _Ah, welcome back_ , John thought.  Sherlock continued, “Tonight.”

“Tomorrow,” Dr. Evans said again.  “God, John, my apologies, mate, but I'm leaving you to deal with this.”  

At which point, Sherlock glared through squinty eyes, first at the doc, then at John, and then replaced the arm over his eyes.  “Tonight.”  An annoyed huff came from the bed beneath the crooked elbow under unruly curls.  “I live with a bloody physician.  Pretty sure he’s got this sorted.”

John sighed, glancing apologetically at the other men in the room, said, “I think we need a minute here.”

When the room was empty, John slid the dimmer switch on the side lighting up slightly.  “Move your arm so you can see me,” and Sherlock complied, his eyes barely slits against the still rather dim light.  “Can you sit up, just a bit?” he directed, and Sherlock did and then let out a reflexive moan, holding his head with a pained expression.  As John suspected, the change of position greatly affected his head pain.

“Tomorrow.  You have a bloody painful  _head injury_.  You've had signs of increased intracranial pressure.  You’re light-sensitive.  And,” John hedged, quickly debating how much to bring up, “do you feel like you need to urinate?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a bit, then realisation dawned, his hand crossing to his lower pelvis, considering, and then he nodded, the slightest bit of concern there.  “You have a bl--  _catheter_  in.”  He opted not to throw the word bloody in front of catheter just out of principle.  He lowered the head of the bed, traced his hand up along Sherlock's shoulder, ending with his palm against the side of Sherlock's face as he spoke reassuringly.  “Stay the night.  I’ll take you home in the morning.”

“Get  _this_ ,” he said, pushing John's hand away and gesturing toward his groin, menacing as he could be for the shape he was in, “out tonight.   _Now_.  Actually,” he said from behind the arm again thrown over his face, “Get the nurse to take it out.  Provided he knows what he’s doing, that is.”

“I’ll do it.”

“No.  You ... and it... do not belong together.  Not at all.”

“Sherlock.”

“No, John.  With my luck, I’ll get hard if you... God, no.  Not you.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John said again.  Something in John’s tone must have alerted Sherlock, who raised his arm, looked over as he peeked under his bent elbow very briefly.

“Oh, god, you put it in, didn’t you?”

John couldn’t help the slight smirk on his face and was again grateful he was not in imminent physical danger from his flatmate.  “Would you really have preferred a stranger?”

“ _Out.  Immediately_.  You, someone else, housekeeping, don’t care.”  And Sherlock moved the sheets, lifting up the edge of the patient gown, waiting, completely out-of-character exposed while John washed his hands, grabbed gloves and the syringe needed, took care of catheter removal, with minimal words.  There was a sharp intake of breath despite John’s cautionary advice to take in then blow out a slow deep breath, but Sherlock didn’t cry out.  The heart monitor alarmed, however, heart rate elevated, and John silenced the alarm, pausing long enough to watch it settle back down into more normal range.  He measured urine output, disposed of what he needed to, washed his hands again.  He dimmed the light to just barely, comfortably glowing.

“Not a word.”  

John shrugged, watching carefully and knowing that even the remotest chuckle would be problematic.  

“Text my attending.  Discharge orders.”

“Sherlock.”  John sensed that both the battle and the war had suddenly shifted to the advantage of the patient.  Sherlock’s long fingers started wandering about across his chest, found the electrodes there, and, in quick succession, popped off the five cables that connected him to the heart monitor.  The alarm rang, John suspended it, shaking his head.  Clearly, he was thinking rather well, dexterity seemed good, and he debated on the wisdom of enforcing additional hours in the hospital.  Particularly when John himself was going to be the one suffering greatly.  He thought about leaving the building, sleeping at home, by himself, but Sherlock would assuredly sign out AMA in the blink of an eye.

“Now,” Sherlock said, feisty, as his hand located and poised on the IV, “ _Home_.”  And he yanked on that, hair and tape pulling tightly on skin until coming loose, while John sat watching him calmly, a trickle of blood coming from the site, dripping over his wrist and spreading in a small puddle on the sheets.  Sherlock looked over abruptly at John, who continued to sit there, calmly, watching.  “Well, are you going to let me bleed to death after all this?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Signing out AMA is when the patient, "against medical advice," leaves the hospital before the physician approves a discharge.
> 
> Oh, and don't ever use the word Quiet around a healthcare provider. For as much as they base their professions on science and evidence based medicine, they are a superstitious bunch!


	6. The Brat Manipulates His Way out of the Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging with me on this! Here is the transition from ICU to Baker Street.

_Are you going to let me bleed to death after all this? Sherlock had asked._

 ++

“You probably don’t want to offer me those kind of options.”  John casually reached for another pair of gloves and gauze to staunch the bleeding.  “That might have been unwise.  Some of the nurses are pretty strict about IV access while hospitalised.  And, just so you know, there would have been IV medications you might have been able to get prior to leaving.  If you had left the bloody IV alone.”

The hand over Sherlock’s face made a dismissive motion, then paused mid-gesture as John's words sank in.  " _Prior to leaving_?"

“I'm pretty sure it's a bad idea."

Sherlock's expression was hopeful. "You think it's ok though."

"Your doc might say no."

"You'll be with me."

"It's not up to me, yeah?  Try not to act the spoiled rotten brat that you seem to be.”

In the end, John texted Sherlock’s attending physician, who returned to the unit after a short while, smiling tightly and shaking his head.  He gave in because things remained overall stable, post-traumatic altered mental status mostly resolved, although some of the immediately preceding events and early hospitalisation he had no recall.  It was, as Sherlock had said, primarily allowed for the fact that John would be with him.  And, all knew quite well, that Sherlock was going to make their existence a living nightmare if they required him to spend additional time there in the ICU.

He reviewed wound care, pain medication regimen, and dietary considerations.  Post-concussion care, the doctor told them both, was imperative, to be followed strictly and completely, if, and he paused here, waiting for Sherlock to look at him with some degree of pretending to pay attention, “... you want to recover quickly and fully, you must, must,  _must_  take it easy.  No reading, no screen time, no television for at least a week or so, maybe longer, depending on your symptoms.  Caution must be exercised on activities that require focused attention.  Avoid anything that’s going to elevate your heart rate unnecessarily, if possible.  Anything that makes your headache worse, stop.”

They both watched Sherlock’s reaction to all of that, from the disappointment in his expressive eyes to the clench of his jaw.

The doc wasn't done.  "If you cheat, screw this up now, you will significantly slow down brain recovery.  You can delay healing and end up paying dearly in the end.  It might take much longer to fully recover brain function.  Understand?"

After the doc finished, John took hold of Sherlock’s chin until he reluctantly met John’s eyes.  His intention was to have Sherlock paying close attention, recognise the seriousness of what he was about to say.  “We will do this my way now.  Do you understand?  You are going to follow directions from here on, no pulling at things, no overdoing it, nothing.  Or,” he hesitated again, a dramatic pause, “we will keep your sorry arse in this bed and you will stay until morning.  Your decision is binding.”

“ _Fine._ ”

John, skeptical, raised an eyebrow.  “I have witnesses here, you see.”  Sherlock kept wisely silent, and John knew if he was feeling well, insults or other unwanted observations would have been hurled at _someone_.  "And don't think for a second I won't hesitate to bring you back if I need to."

“Yes, John.”  His tone was clearly irritated and sarcastic.  “Home.”

His gait was terribly ataxic, John saw, just in the eventual few steps from the bed to the wheelchair, and even just the change of position to standing seemed to make him queasy.  John grabbed the patient basin for the ride in case his stomach rebelled.  The volunteer who accompanied them, at John's direction, pushed very slow and easy.  The wheeled ride from ICU to the cab triggered some rather profound nausea anyway.

A cab delivered them home, and Sherlock maneuvered the steps up to the flat without whinging only because he knew - correctly so - that to complain would only give John the ammunition to say “I told you so.”  John was grateful that their discharge time was at least late evening, cutting down on any bright piercing sunshine that would have given Sherlock more pain.

Mycroft was in the sitting room, ankle crossed over one knee, and waited for Sherlock to groan in annoyance before wholly ignoring him.  Sherlock sank into the nearest chair, energy depleted from the activity.

“John, get rid of him, please.”

“Nice to have you home, Sherlock.  You're looking _splendid_ , I see.”  Mycroft stood, then, inclined his head to John.  “All has been taken care of.”

“Thank you.”  They exchanged a glance and a nod that John was just as glad Sherlock missed.  And momentarily, it was just the two of them again.

“I don’t see why he was here,” Sherlock challenged, briefly looking around, puzzled, although there was fatigue in his expression and his eyes were not bright as they'd been earlier.

John considered his response carefully, opted on silence, knowing Sherlock was going to be distinctly unhappy at what John had asked his brother to see to prior to their arrival home.  John hadn’t actually been in the flat since Sherlock had been injured, and that was obvious - neglect, a hasty exit, light left on, door ajar. In the bedroom, John knew, there would be pyjamas he'd hastily thrown somewhere, bed linens flung wide, closet door open.  To John, it seemed ages since the phone had rung ominously in the dead of night, with the news...

“It’s irrelevant right now.”  John locked the flat door, guiding Sherlock with gentle hands slowly down the hall.  “For now, it’s rest.”  He hesitated at the door to the loo, kept going when Sherlock shook his head.

Once in the bedroom, John helped Sherlock into pyjamas and a soft tee shirt, after picking off the electrodes still on Sherlock's chest.  He eased Sherlock into bed, took care of his own needs quickly, and then joined him there, slowly, trying not to jostle the mattress more than absolutely necessary.  John could tell by Sherlock's stillness that he was aching and exhausted and deliberately trying not to aggravate his obviously painful headache.  He’d left a soft light on in the hallway, illuminating the room just enough that they wouldn’t injure themselves tripping over something unexpected in case Sherlock's nausea returned. “You can have pain medicine in a bit if you need, but not on an empty stomach.”  Mycroft, as John had directed, had placed a few bottles of water and a package of dry crackers on the nightstand, but for now John left these alone.  

He reached a hand out, holding Sherlock’s with his own, his thumb rubbing lightly.  Comfort, in that moment, was enveloping - the familiarity of home, the warmth and security of the shared bed, even with Sherlock's compromised health, and the sounds and atmosphere of the flat.  John savored the absolute rightness of being home, together.  He would be loathe to admit it, but he was glad Sherlock had thrown the mini-tantrum that brought them home.

John got comfortable, laying relaxed on his back, and stretched out his arm in invitation.  Sherlock may or may not have actually purred as he turned on his side, tucking his head onto the softly muscled shoulder beckoning him.  A few body adjustments later, and their knees were intermingled, arms loosely draped.  John finally felt the tension leaving his body as well, finally with Sherlock safely tucked into his arm where he belonged.  He let his hand trail gently up Sherlock's back, warm, tender, soothing.

"This ok?" he asked quietly, turning his face into the curls.  There was still the remotely acrid scent of old blood despite the minimal washing attempts in the hospital, but it was still, in John's mind, right now the absolutely sweetest place on earth.  They would work on Sherlock's hair tomorrow.  He reminded himself not to squeeze over-protectively, gentled the embrace.

"Better than ok."

"Rest if you can.  This doesn't hurt?"  John let his lips brush at the edge of Sherlock's brow.

"It's good."  When Sherlock's fingers, John thought initially out of habit, slid up John's ribs in the direction of a nipple, John caught and stilled the hand just in case it wasn't accidental.  It wasn't - the hand he'd grabbed pushed, a cupping motion to slide around John's pectoral muscle.

"No."  John was glad he'd trusted his instincts, again, as he let his fingers entwine with Sherlock's.

"I hear it's helpful for headache."

"No."  John felt Sherlock nudge his hip, pressing partially erect hardness against him.  "Sherlock, _no_."  John cringed at the escalating sensations as he felt Sherlock's knee edge upward, pressing toward the vee of John's legs.

"Don't you want to make sure it still works, after all it's been through?"

"Not tonight."  John let a hand drift to Sherlock's side, attempting to cease the thrusting movements against his hip.  "Don't make me get up."

"That's exactly what I'm trying to do, here. _Up_!"

"Sherlock, stop and follow directions _now._ Your brain needs some downtime," he said, cautiously letting go of Sherlock's hand and bringing his own to the slightly stumbled jawline of the man in his arms.  He brushed his thumb over the angle of brow and temple in a plea to behave. "And so do I."

 There was a huff of an exhale in answer, and John pictured in his mind an actual pout.

"Sleep safe.  You're home, and you'll be ok."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-concussion care is serious business. The early care, activity and patient compliance with proven effective concussion strategies can have a profound effect on recovery in the long term.
> 
> It's a good thing John has a plan.
> 
> ++
> 
> Comments and suggestions always appreciated.... and of course please let me know if I missed something!


	7. Recuperating does not Equate with a Good Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last one, but the plot seems to have a few loose ends that I am nearly finished with. I should have this piece finished by the end of the week.
> 
> Thanks!

Sherlock’s senses told him many things before he actually fully awakened.  Sheets, pillow, his bed, the scent of John nearby.  He was fuzzy on when they'd actually come to bed.  However, both of them had a warm musky scent of sweat, they must have climbed into bed prior to showering, a late night then. No recent smell of semen, no anatomical soreness (not that it specifically hurt, but he could always tell what they'd been up to), no sensation of dried lube or dried body fluids on him, likely then, they’d collapsed before having sex. That could be remedied shortly, he thought, feeling the first twinges of a morning erection in the makings. He breathed deep, shifted his sleepy body, elongating his spine as he became aware of some rather profound muscle aching, legs, arms.   _Right, the chase in the alley_.  Dehydrated then after sprinting, he realised, stretching out a leg to feel for John across the cool expanse of sheets.  His toes came in contact with a warm, slightly hairy leg.

Interesting, the dehydration - John usually insisted on _re_ hydrating, if there’d been physical exertion involved, which Sherlock already suspected due to the residual sweat on their skin.  Sherlock, after that kind of exercise, had always fussed about it, but now questioned his own protestations as he noticed that even his back was stiff.  And the remnants of a headache unlike one he'd ever had.  Distinct, posterior scalp pain.

Opening one eye, he found John already wide awake leaning against the headboard, which his brain labeled another slight anomaly, watching him.

“You never wake up first,” he accused as John seemed to be studying him more intently than usual.

“You were exhausted.”

Sherlock could sense that he was missing something, just by John's demeanor.  John watched him as if he waited for Sherlock to connect the dots, assemble the pieces, create the helical DNA strand from memory (and given enough time, he could certainly accomplish that).  “I need to call Lestrade.”  John raised an eyebrow as Sherlock shifted on an elbow to elevate slightly against the pillow.  “The man I was chasing had an ATI Security patch on the left shoulder of his jacket, and ...t-two partners."  There was a bit of a creased brow, and Sherlock tipped his head, then, ”Greg got him, right?"  He glanced at the nightstand. "Where is my mobile?"

Sherlock could see John swallow, still slightly uncertain and hiding something, but then John, without answering, angled an arm, grabbed a water bottle, offered it to Sherlock.   _Bloody hydration nag._

“I had the strangest dream,” Sherlock said abruptly, as if the thought had just materialised. “Kidnapped, attacked, assaulted.” He took the water bottle, drained half to shut John up, recapped, let it fall between their pillows. “Shackled. Abused. I remember calling for you, and you weren't there.”

John’s eyes were unreadable, and Sherlock twisted in the bed, his mind slow to connect.  He reached fingers tentatively up toward his head, wanting to apply pressure to the pounding, but John snaked out a quick hand, grasped Sherlock’s wrist preventing further exploration. “Not entirely a nightmare,” he said gently as he allowed, then, Sherlock’s hand to find the sutures at the back of his head.

Sherlock met John's gaze with wide eyes then, as the fragmented details swirled in his mind, assembling in an incomplete, foggy, misty memory.  The cogs engaged, the pixels forming an image, clicking into place, and Sherlock’s eyes became clearer.  "Oh my god _. John."_

++

The morning had passed in mostly quiet, lazy activities.  John ran a bath for Sherlock, who fussed about wanting a _bloody shower, for god's sake_.  John spent almost half an hour shampooing, rinsing and gently combing dried blood out of the back of his hair, holding the suture line with folded gauze as he worked.  He'd perched on the bathtub edge as he did, shifting position every so often.  They had tea - one steaming mug of regular Earl Gray and then John insisted on decaffeinated from that point, to the distinct displeasure of his flatmate.  Mycroft's designated minion of the day had dropped off several bags of shopping from the grocers - and Sherlock had a mild rant of unhappiness about the bloody whole wheat bread and too many sodding fruits and vegetables and not enough sweets and biscuits.

Sherlock's concussion symptoms also annoyed him.  The headache was largely untouched with the paracetamol that John brought him, a throbbingly deep unrelenting pain.  He said the pain was aggravated by talking, moving, breathing, and John's mere existence at one point in the early afternoon when irritability was highest.  His words occasionally were slower to form, the few times he tried to talk about numbers, he stopped abruptly mid-rant, the words temporarily suspending his dendrites and axons.  The spoken numeral evaded his thoughts, derailed, jumped the tracks.  Had John been less persuasive, Sherlock would have panicked at the impaired brain function, but John was able to assure him of its transient nature.  Quick motions, such as standing too fast or taking steps overly quickly brought vertigo and nausea. Had he been less irascible, John would have made a remark about the unfortunate curse of long legs and therefore, long stride.

To Sherlock's chagrin, John refused the company of Mrs Hudson (but allowed her delivery of supper to be reheated later).  Mycroft gained entrance but Sherlock turned on the silent treatment and failed to engage in any interaction, as John expected, which was why he'd been admitted in the flat in the first place.  In a measure of childish petulance, Sherlock refused to speak with Lestrade on the landline, so John made the phone call to relay the details that Sherlock was able to remember regarding the uniform  of the criminal he'd pursued.  When Lestrade asked about stopping over for a visit, John looked pointedly at Sherlock as he answered, "Yeah, he's not receiving company for a couple of days yet, I think."  The glare Sherlock riveted on him was full stop _murderous_.  

But the massive upset had been over the electronics situation.  John'd password protected his laptop, the television (grateful for the newer technology of the SmartTV), and hidden both mobiles where Sherlock would not be able to locate them.  And Sherlock didn't care a bit that John was voluntarily going without his, a sign of solidarity.  The WiFi had been disabled, as well, John informed him, as an added precaution, as John wasn't sure exactly what other devices Sherlock may have had tucked away.  Sherlock protested that if John was meaning to keep him safe, he'd failed to consider the possibility of emergency, how idiotic exactly was John in leaving them unable to summon help if needed.  It was then that John related that Mycroft had been quick to order the installation of a landline, sometime between John's texted request and the time they arrived home.  The new telephone connection sat on the kitchen worktop, and Sherlock might have stomped it to utter destruction, except that John had stood between him and it, concurrently protective and menacing.  Sherlock was almost livid, and it took John's raised voice, initially, and then a few sharply delivered Captain Watson directives before he at least stopped carrying on.

The only positive to Sherlock's stony anger, once he'd calmed down to merely stubbornly silent was that he didn't try to manipulate John into needing to refute his sexual advances.  Once they'd fallen asleep, though, apparently their psyches didn't know any better - they woke up entwined, warm, comfortable, and peaceful. The morning would probably not be any smoother than yesterday, John knew, and so he acknowledged this calm moment, kissed Sherlock's temple, and got up to put the kettle on.

++

Later that day, in a lull between disagreements, Sherlock eased his long legs into a chair while John fixed and brought tea into the living room.  The cup was steaming, too hot for the moment, as he sat down, also.

"The doctor didn't say I couldn't smoke, did he?"  John had verbally given Sherlock the discharge instructions, and, on this second day home, had already repeated them several times as Sherlock poked at them  _and poked at John_ looking for loopholes, exceptions, and gray areas.

" _This_ one is."

"Nicotine patch, then."

"No.  Contraindicated with head injury."  When Sherlock didn't budge at all, John continued, "And might worsen headache symptoms."

He made a face then, at least acknowledging that his head was hurting him in that he didn't continue to fuss about it.  "Seriously, John, at least put in a movie."  To his credit, he spoke lowly and quietly as opposed to whiny or angry.  "Star Wars, even.  I'll just _listen_ to it."  In John's head, the theme song for 'Let's Make a Deal' started playing.

"No."

"I'm supposed to avoid an elevated heart rate, and _you are upsetting me_."  Sherlock's sulk was bordering on a snit, and John was _bloody not in the mood._ "Give me ...t-ten minutes on your laptop."  John raised an eyebrow at him.  "And then we can go have a kip.  Or something."  He looked pointedly at John's mouth, chest, waist, the sparkle in his eye leaving no doubt that Sherlock was not beneath using sex as a weapon.  The git could bloody turn on the charm when it suited him, John saw, resolving that under no circumstance could he show even the faintest glimmer of weakness.

“Would you like to be readmitted to the hospital?” John asked evenly.

“There is no valid reason I should be.”

“Do you doubt for one second that I could not say _all the right things_ to get you readmitted?”

In answer, Sherlock closed his eyes there in his chair.  “I will die of boredom.”  He actually had the gall to cross his arms like a tall, underdressed ancient Egyptian preparing for mummification.

“I don’t think that has ever actually happened.”  John wanted to add the words 'drama queen' but the surety of an elevated heart rate that would have been directly his fault, kept him from speaking his mind.

“Good, I’ll be the ... f-first, then.  I want to be written up in medical journals worldwide.  Under cause of death on my death certificate, _boredom_ , secondary to John Hamish Watson, jailer.  And make sure Greg Lestrade’s stupidity gets a mention, too.”

“Noted.  No problem.”  John watched Sherlock's foot tap restlessly.  "I'll be sure to find out Greg's middle name, then, and make sure the death cert is as complete as possible."

Time to change tactics and try a new approach.  "Disabling the WiFi is playing dirty, and sending _Mycroft_ to do it is beneath contempt."  He glanced at John, checking vigilance and finding John alert and focused, _drat._ "I know where my mobile is, by the way."

"I don't think you do."  John worked hard at keeping the smirk off his face.  He'd hollowed out the last few pieces of the loaf of whole wheat bread, and placed both his and Sherlock's plastic-wrapped mobiles there.  He was most certain they would not be disturbed.  "So, would you like to hear the story of your hospitalisation?  I can entertain you for a bit, if you'd like, while you drink your _decaffeinated green_ tea." 

"Neuro-restorative anti-oxidants are a medical fallacy."  

John pondered his options, wondering at the wisdom of engaging Sherlock in an argument.  "Actually, recent studies are indeed showing some neuroprotective benefits from polyphenols, and there may be some promise for some anticarcinogenic effects too."  

"You're lying.  Let me read the article."

"Nice try."  When Sherlock narrowed an eye at John, John smiled at him with empathetic kindness and said, _"No."_ John considered that two days ago Sherlock had been nigh out of his mind, unable to communicate, and now he was back to his manipulative, conniving,  _clever_ self.  "I know you hate this, but being careful now can make all the difference toward a complete and timely recovery."

Sherlock looked over, seeing a gentle side of John trying valiantly to be patient with him, a compassionate, trying-to-help doctor.  He steepled his fingers together as he considered he really had not a lot of options at this point.  But John had just raised the stakes, and Sherlock would strategise, overthrow, and emerge the victor in this battleground, eventually. Time to throw him off track.  "Ok, I suppose you can attempt to factually recall the last few days.  I think I also remember trying to bite someone, so make sure to work that into your account."  He turned his attention fully to John.  "From the beginning, then."

 ++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a nod at The Abominable Bride ending line ... I couldn't help it!
> 
> There are a few people I know personally who have struggled with some terrible long terms effects of post concussion syndrome. The early days, as Sherlock's medical team correctly identifies, are crucial to minimizing some of these effects.
> 
> Green tea seems to make medical literature pretty regularly, some of it looking credible and authoritative, but small studies, and they all end with "more research is needed". Mostly it falls into the 'probably won't hurt' category.
> 
> Comments will probably get the final chapter finished quicker - talk about motivating! Nearly there, just a few loose ends to put the finishing touches on.


	8. Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes, and the real fun begins as Sherlock starts to feel better and the restrictions placed on him - and that he agreed to - really start to drive them all crazy.

_captivity, day 3_

_I live with a power-hungry flatmate, a rigid control freak.  He keeps reminding me that I agreed to this, which of course I remember, the veiled threats of readmission and the fact that he had witnesses.  I tell him that I would never have agreed to something so ridiculously unnecessary, that obviously then I was not quite in my right mind and cannot be held contractually obligated to an agreement made under duress.  He isn't buying it.  Later today I will argue my competence at the time of the verbal arrangement.  I would explain that as far as mental capacity, even injured I likely am far more intelligent than most people_ uninjured,  _but that actually does not work at all in my favour so I will keep that truth to myself._

_The only things preventing either of us from actually crossing the boundaries from civility into something unacceptable are that John is still too nice to do that, and I am actually rather hindered by this headache, dull and pounding, that does escalate on the pain scale.  I choose not to quantify the rating at present, as the numbers don't even write easily.  Speaking them is worse - frustrating and humiliating. I'm not about to confess to that either, although John thinks he creatively works in a question, observation, or other verbal bait \- in order to exhibit my deficit for his amusement (it occurs to me that I am his experiment - I am not amused in the slightest).  The short circuit in my brain regarding numbers is just unacceptable, and yet I am at the mercy of this brain contusion.  _

_A blog post such as this may never become digital reality, as it is written on smuggled paper while in the loo.  Funny that a few moans about stomach cramps can end up yielding a few extra minutes of being peacefully left alone. But I hear him pacing the hallway, and probably don't have long before he either knocks or just barges in._

 

_captivity, day 4_

_I don't particularly care that John has surrendered his own mobile willingly, although he seems to feel this was a noble gesture as he reminds me often. His stupidity by choice is still stupidity._

_I also fail to see the beneficence of twice daily "walks" (like I am a hound to be taken out) that do not involve anything more exciting than sitting on a park bench a few blocks away watching the entirety of London continue on with their unencumbered lives. The fresh air unfortunately has not here-to-now been particularly curative or restorative - it actually has been a relief to return to the flat in order to sit this blasted headache down and wait for the throbbing to lessen. I offer nothing, but am fairly certain that John is somewhat aware of the pain escalation with activity._

 

_captivity, day 5_

_Today (provided I keep secreted the strength of my headache) John assures me he has something new and different to share with me, and if symptoms do not worsen, he seems to feel this will help alleviate the boredom. I'm not sure anything short of return to full activities will do that. And apparently when you partner with a doctor, faking stomach cramps is not wise, as it leads to further dietary restrictions along with a vague reference to the appropriateness of my 'brat' diet (he thinks himself terribly clever) and shockingly personal questions regarding 'bulk, colour, consistency, and odour.' Hence, shorter entry.  Some things are simply not meant to be shared._

++

Supper happened early in the day, in part because John was growing fatigued of the constant vigilance required to keep Sherlock occupied and behaving appropriately.  So at least dinner provided something for them to do that was on the approved list of how-to-keep-Sherlock-entertained.  There was no feasible way to remove every book from the flat, so if John let his guard down too long, Sherlock would somehow end up with one, or doing (or attempting) something he shouldn't.  And despite Sherlock's assurance that he was improving, John could still see the tension lines on his forehead and the discomfort etched in the set and even the colour of his eyes.  The daily excursions outdoors at least were bothering him less, provided John could continue to keep him from leaping over low fences, and John wasn't sure if the escape from the flat was more for his benefit or Sherlock's.  He hoped this next attempt to give him something different to do (as opposed to fuss, complain, attempt to cajole John into relenting and relaxing the rules temporarily) would offer some hope of improvement and a way to help pass the time.

One of the things not on John's approved _list_ that Sherlock spent a bit of time pursuing was the quest for the mobiles, and he seemed to play intermittent twenty questions during many of their waking hours. _Are they in the flat, are they turned on, are they hidden in the walls, are they together, are they dismantled, are you aware that mobile phones should not be kept in the icebox, are they within 100 cm of the ceiling, etc._ John considered that he was on borrowed time until Sherlock deduced their location just out of sheer luck, or when he ran out of other options.  John had stoically refused to divulge any information, answer any question, and truly wasn't sure what he was going to do when Sherlock figured it out.

So after they'd cleaned up the kitchen, which a few days previously had resulted in Sherlock playing the headache card a bit too vehemently - counterproductive, like the stomach cramps - John told Sherlock to have a seat, that he would join him in a moment.  A few interesting noises from the kitchen had Sherlock listening intently and then groaning with disgust, most likely directed at himself as he figured out where John's hiding place had been.

"In the loaf of bread, were they?" he asked with horror at the realisation as John carried his own mobile back into the sitting room, and plugged it into the docking station of the speaker system.

"Mine was."  John dangled that untruth, knowing it would suit as a distraction.  He touched a few buttons, adjusted the volume to an appropriate low level, and glanced over at Sherlock as the strains of the London Symphony Orchestra began to play.  "Too loud?"

Sherlock's face gentled as he shook his head slightly, and John watched as his mouth curved upward, an actual, genuine smile.  He let his eyes drift closed, his head reclining just slightly so that he relaxed into his chair as the swells of the music sounded, sweet warm sounds vibrating in the acoustics of the flat.  The music carried with almost concert hall echoes in the room, wood floors promoting the full trebles of the strings.  "Oh, God, what is this piece of music?"

"It's the live streaming app of the LSO."  John crossed back to the mobile, touched it.  "This one is something by Berlioz."

" _Symphonie fantastique_."  Sherlock nodded as the name came to him, triggered by the mention of the composer.

John watched Sherlock primarily, his mind having acknowledged the music playing, but his concerns were that the noise or musical complexity was going to exacerbate the concussion symptoms.  He waited, watching, and got no inclination that anything was awry.  The music truly did seem calming.  Sherlock was fully at ease, and John had not seen that for quite a while, other than when he was asleep.  "Bothering your head at all?"

"No, it's very... settling.  It's good."  

They listened a while, another piece being performed.  The men punctuated the music with conversational snippets from time to time, mostly just casual nothingness, until Sherlock then said, "I fail to see why you kept listening to music from me until now."  Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but he spoke quietly, wide awake.

"Fair enough.  What do you hear?"  John answered.  "Specifically."

"Key signature.  This one is in 'A'."  Unable to stop the smile, John wondered at his not being aware the man had perfect pitch, but wasn't surprised.  He waited, watching, as Sherlock continued to speak.  "Musical excellence, very crisp.  Sectional dominance - this is a little duet between violin and cello.  There's a bit of tympani that should come in... _here_."  His hand moved upward, elegantly, waiting for the measures he knew, then there was a confident downstroke as the percussion sounded.  " _Oh_.  The time signature.  You are concerned about the _numbers_ , the tempo.  You thought the rhythm would be a problem."

"A valid concern."

Sherlock shrugged but did not counter John's statement.

"You are aware of music on a level most of us are not.  It is a mathematical language for you."  When Sherlock actually opened his eyes to see John, considering the analysis, John continued.  "You conduct everything, often with your hand waving or foot tapping, definitely with your breathing.  Sometimes just your mind."  Sherlock angled his head, that typical Holmes' mannerism, in quasi-respect.  Or perhaps something else, but John took it positively.  "You do count off quite a bit, listening to music.  I really thought it best to wait."

"That's rather observant, John.  Even for you."

John gritted his teeth.  "You're bloody delightful company, you know."

"I also hear the slightest bit of a tuning issue in the viola section.  It's dissonant."  John shook his head, wondering at the bold criticism of the LSO.

Before long, the piece ended and another slow, andante work came on.  Sherlock remained still, eyes closed, breathing easily, hands and feet relaxed, unmoving.  John felt his tension abate somewhat as well, he exhaled fully, sat back a while, and his eyes grew heavy.  Orchestral strings swelled, grew, stilled into thin melodies, and John gratefully thought they might actually survive this ordeal if the music would help pass the time safely.  While the hospitalisation had been a terrible experience, this phase was almost worse, as he became the enemy trying to protect Sherlock from himself.   _Ahhh_ , he thought, he could learn to love classical music if it carried them through.  But he was not unprepared, fortunately, and while he appeared almost dozing, he did not relax as much as it must have seemed.  As he'd wisely intended.

From behind closed eyelids, John sensed when Sherlock soundlessly toed off his shoes and quietly stood.  John hesitated a moment, eyes open the barest amount as he observed Sherlock take one silent step toward the music source.

"So help me," John said, tone dead serious, "if you so much as touch that, I am breaking _this_ in half and then smashing it."  John had quickly pulled Sherlock's mobile out of his shirt pocket, held it in his strong hands, fingers at the edges, thumbs in the middle, as if ready to snap it.

He could see Sherlock swallow in irritation (at being caught, he was fairly certain), and Sherlock said, "I was just going to see what this piece was, and I didn't want to disturb you."

"Right."  John raised a brow, continued, "This is J.S. Bach, by the way, the Requiem."

"You're full of shit.   _Bach_ it is not, and he didn't even write a piece called Requiem."

"So who is this, then?  Because you most assuredly know."  Bluff-calling was an art form that John was still perfecting.

Rather than answer, Sherlock simply clenched his teeth, sat back down with an annoyed huff.  Finally, he said, "It's Dvorak."

"Please don't ruin this, okay?  Enjoy what we can rather than focus on what you can't have yet."  

"T-t-ten minutes.  Give me t-ten minutes on the laptop, and I swear it'll be enough."  They were both frustrated at the continuing word hesitancy when it came to numbers, but neither acknowledged it this time.

"No."  John laughed, then, albeit gently.  "It won't be enough, and you know it.  Tonight, it's some London Symphony Orchestra, as long you want, providing it's not hurting.  And if this goes well, you tell me you feel okay, and if I think you're being honest with me, then I have something else planned for tomorrow."

"What is it?  Clipping our toenails?  Watching water boil?  Ooh, perhaps we could tell ghost stories in front of the fireplace."

"Oi, shut up, you wretch, I can't hear the music over your bloody whinging."

"Even prisoners get to make a phone call."

"Phone's over there, have at it."

He glared at the landline as if it were revolting, an item to be shunned.  John knew he would never deign to use it out of principle.  He wasn't sure if John were unconscious and the flat were ablaze, he questioned it even then.  Sherlock then turned his attention back to John's mobile, which had long since switched to a locked screensaver.  "This will all be worth it?  You promise?"

"It will.  I promise."

The shared moment was actually a peaceful interlude, where they were of kindred intent and committed, but it lasted only long enough for Sherlock to regroup.  "I fail to see how listening to music is much different that listening to a movie on the telly..." and the circular disagreement continued for a few minutes until the landline rang.  It was a strange, foreign sound in the flat, and John gestured toward it as an offer to let Sherlock answer it.  It was declined, of course.

The one-sided conversation that he was then subjected to - "sure, yes, things are better" (pause, laughter) "you know it is, yes that would be great, he and I are both looking forward to it, that time would be perfect" - probably made him wish he'd answered, although he'd sooner have died than admit it.

John sat down, then, trying to be grateful for what they had, for how recovered Sherlock was, even as he wished he could hurry this process along.

Sherlock held out his hand toward John, who'd slid Sherlock's mobile into his shirt pocket again.  "I'll hang onto that."

"Right."

The following morning started off badly as Sherlock attempted to sneak out of bed without alerting John.  This was the same John who realised this was becoming more a possibility (particularly since he'd had to re-hide both mobile phones in a new cache, this time in an outdated medical text with the pages carved out of the center) and had placed a bell on a string on the outer doorknob before coming to bed.  It was not a good beginning to the day.  The attempt at baking biscuits (and they'd managed to pass the time in previous days by assembling and preparing various foods) was met with resistance, although Sherlock thought nothing of _eating_ the finished product.  Mycroft, at John's request, brought over a few artist-grade modeling clay packs thinking Sherlock might find something to do with his overly bored hands - and he stayed long enough to have a cup of tea, eat some of the biscuits from earlier in the day, and fuss at his brother for his churlish infantile behaviour.  Their conversation positively dripped with blatant hostility and unappreciated rancor.

Once Mycroft had left, Sherlock turned on John.  "If that visit was the 'something different' to look forward to today, it was the worst possible thing you could have chosen."  He grumbled, rubbed his head until he remembered that John was watching him like a hawk, and would (correctly) assume the pain was intense again.

"It wasn't.  Relax."  John looked intently at Sherlock, reading his pain level from his features, expression, and demeanor.  "I am sorry he made your headache worse."

"I am not responding to that."

"You don't have to, I can bloody _see_ it."  John crossed to the speakers again.  "Close your eyes a bit, perhaps.  I'll bring you some paracetamol, and soon, we're having more company."  Some soft strings began then, one of Pachelbel's arrangements, and John returned with pain pills.  "I know this is terrible, and you're frustrated.  But we'll get through this, and you'll be fine."  John eased into the sofa with Sherlock, wrapped solid arms around him, and somehow maneuvered their positions around so that he was rubbing Sherlock's head gently, massaging with his fingertips as they reclined.  It was a very pleasant way to unwind, there in the sitting room, pressed against each other in a few comforting and rare, breezy moments of peace.

++

With a bit of entertainment and a trace of concern, John watched Sherlock open one of the packs of clay, and shape it rather adeptly into a realistic looking grenade, complete with pin.  He set it on the end table, then waited to be sure John was focused on it, then pounded it flat with the heel of his hand.  To further express his distaste, he then flicked the squashed clay with his finger, leaving it discarded on the floor where it landed.  The anger was expected, and John tried not to take it personally.  Sherlock refused lunch, did not want to listen to music, shot down every single one of John's suggestions.  John had just considered the possibility of asking someone - _anyone_ \- to come over to relieve him of his present charge before he did something regrettable.  But that was even impossible, as Sherlock made some sorry excuse for needing the loo but swiped a book on the way past.  John had given chase, an easy task in his current state of heightened alertness, had taken the book away, and swatted Sherlock lightly on the bum for doing it.

"I'd be good with that instead," he said saucily, sticking out a hip and letting his most charming smile take over his face.  "Bedroom?"

John was almost thinking about giving in on that front, anyway, then steeled his resolve.  "Not yet."

"God, John, seriously, it would be easier, less stressful, less aggravating, to just _give in._  You're trying to avoid stressing my body, prevent the aerobic heart rate elevation - I get it - but by trying to dodge it, you're making it worse!"

There was a knock at the door then, and John gave Sherlock a gentle shove into the loo.  When he resisted, John reminded him, "You said you had to go, wouldn't want to confirm that it was a bloody fib, eh?"

With Sherlock temporarily occupied, John answered the door, hugged Molly Hooper with probably as much desperation as pleasure, and shut the door behind her.  In her hands was the cat carrier she'd brought along, Toby inside, who let out a pitiful _MOWL_.

None of them had particularly anticipated a long visit as Toby slunk around the room curiously for a few minutes, clearly unsettled.   John and Molly chatted while Sherlock sulked, patently avoiding even glancing at the visiting human or feline.  Toby then jumped up on the back of the couch, stepped spryly down Sherlock's upper body, and then settled almost immediately into a curled up purring gray fur-ball right on Sherlock's lap.  The vibrato of the purring actually brought a pure smile to Sherlock as he reluctantly gave in, touching then petting the cat on the soft fur of his head.  His long fingers chucked Toby under the chin, and the cat's eyes closed in unmitigated gratification.  

Once the cat was settled, sleeping with chin pressed firmly on Sherlock's thigh, Molly glanced at John and, to Sherlock, offered, "I brought a card game, John thought it'd be okay to try."

"Oooh, sounds perfect, but I doubt that," he mused, "I'm sure reading the cards would not get a nod of approval from the warden."

When John smirked, Sherlock realised he'd been set up.  "What?" he asked, looking between the humans in the room and the fuzzy lap pillow he continued to stroke lightly.

"It's old maid."  Molly was able to keep a straight face, although her mouth did that sweet pursing motion.  John needed to look away and swallow hard before being able to meet his eye.

"You brought a _child's game."_

Molly looked askance at John for help, unable to find an appropriate answer.  What John wanted to say: _If the bloody shoe fits_.  What John uttered instead, "Yes, she did.  No reading required - pictures."  He took the deck, shuffled lightly, dealt matter-of-factly as if this were a common occurrence.  When Molly had called the first time about stopping by with the cat, she asked about a card game, and John had suggested this one.  "You're going _down_."

They played three rounds, and ended in a three-way tie.  The last hand of the final tie-breaking hand drew an exclamation of disappointment from John, which startled Toby, who sprang off, bolted from Sherlock's lap in a fluffed-up startled, mewling hurricane of unhappy frantic cat.  Sherlock's expression told a tale of sudden loss, of sadness, and it caught John's eye.  He moved close, his hand coming along comfortingly beside his jaw in a manner similar to how Sherlock had been stroking the cat; their eye contact speaking of security and belonging.  "You can purr if you want," John told him quietly, into his ear.  The intimacy of the moment, as John rubbed Sherlock behind the temple, was almost too much for Molly, who looked away quickly.  The awkward scene was actually interrupted in a timely manner by the sound of footsteps coming heavily up the steps.

Mrs. Hudson knocked, apologetically, and mentioned that her blasted kitchen window was stuck again.  John very agreeably stood, told the landlady that he would be right down.  He hesitated at the door, looking at Molly and Sherlock there in the sitting room.  "I'll be right back," he said tentatively, a mildly concerned expression on his face.

"Oh for pity's sake, John," Sherlock grumbled, "I'm sure Molly isn't going to let me do all of the things you have banned me from in the _minute_ that you'll be gone."

He wanted to offer a few directions, cautions, warnings, but knew that Sherlock was probably right as he trotted down the steps after Mrs. Hudson, who was holding the door open for him.  The task quickly accomplished, he returned to their flat to find both Molly and Sherlock looking more serious than he'd expected, not specifically guilty.  Toby was crouched under the bookshelf in the corner, and once Molly had cajoled him out, she left shortly after that, with the cat protesting loudly from the confines of his carrier.

The door had no sooner closed than Sherlock spoke.  "Did you know she came to visit us in the hospital?"

Perplexed, John shook his head, wondering if it were the case, and if so, when.  "I had no idea."

Sherlock related what Molly'd told him, that she'd stopped in the ICU one day to see if they needed anything.  She'd discovered them both asleep, Sherlock in four point restraints, and John apparently dozing with his head near Sherlock's on the mattress, having leaned in from the bedside chair in which he'd been sitting.  Neither had awakened at her arrival, and she told Sherlock that she couldn't bear the thought of disturbing either of them so she left.

John wasn't surprised, recalling the cat naps between periods of agitation. "You're leaving something out."  John knew, just based on their demeanor earlier in the flat, that there was more to it.

"She said it was a very sweet position, your head over my shoulder, and she said that my head, my face, was right up into your hair, even asleep."  They frequently found that Sherlock enjoyed falling asleep with his nose close to John's head, something about the very scent of John.  "I remember, only vaguely, mind you...  I thought I'd been kidnapped, I thought I was being assaulted, I seem to recall being able to smell you nearby.  It was ...  it helped."

John reached out a warm hand, touched Sherlock on that sensitive area under his bicep.  "I _was_ nearby.'

In answer, Sherlock inhaled deeply in John's direction, and smiled.  "Yeah, but you still lost at old maid."

++

Time passed slowly, it seemed, for them both.  The twice daily walks turned into more, and they ate lunch down the street at a deli one afternoon to break up the monotony.  Lestrade visited, and found Sherlock nearly his same snippy, rude self.  Sherlock was positively brutal to Lestrade until Greg informed him that the uniform information Sherlock managed to recall had led to the arrest of two of the three men involved in the crime that started this madness.  

Once Sherlock had been home for a week, John informed him that he was going to be allowed no more than 30 minutes of screen time per day, which went overall very well.  They both decided that the laptop would be best just for ease of reading, and it was very telling that Sherlock willingly logged out when John asked.  Obviously he'd realised his head was definitely not ready for more than that brief time span.  But it was improvement, and they were both encouraged.  Perhaps the end was nearing.

++

Sherlock padded out to the sitting room in bare feet, tilting his hand as he rubbed the pads of his fingers gently over the back of his itchy head.  He held out a hand for the tea John offered, whispered a thanks in a not-quite-awake morning voice.  The dressing gown was untied, but the flat was warm enough.  John slid a chair out from the table, silently, and Sherlock stopped, stared a moment before sitting down in it.  He sipped the tea, waited for John to enlighten him.

"It's been 8 days, thought I'd see about getting those sutures out if you're healed up enough."

"It'll minimize the itching?"

"It should definitely help.  And then you can gently wash your own hair again, rather than needing my help."

"You like it," he said, a crooked smile.  They'd had a few showers together, with John learning some new evasive maneuvers as Sherlock creatively found ways to rub his body against John as they shampooed or rinsed Sherlock's hair.  "But it frustrates you, too."

"There's not much about our relationship that I don't find frustrating from time to time."  John tossed a towel in front of where Sherlock was sitting, pulled a lamp close from an end table so he could see well.  Also on the table was a suture removal kit that John had brought home from work a long time ago, knowing he'd need it eventually.  "Head down, please."

Sherlock folded his arms, letting the towel lie on top of them as extra padding, and leaned his forehead against his crossed forearms.  John smoothed Sherlock's curls out of the way and used a damp gauze to clean off the suture line.  "You said we could see about resuming other activities after the stitches came out."

"Carefully.  I said we would take it slowly, after the wound was healing well."  John cautioned himself to take things slowly, no rushing.  "I'm not a fan of abstinence either, you know."

"You're the one dragging your feet here.  I'm sure it would have been fine for a while now."

John did know, fending off advances at intervals throughout the day and night, replied only, "Yes, you seem to forget multiple times each day that anything that aggravates your headache or elevates your heart rate, we have been instructed to avoid."

"It's not healthy, going without."

John grasped one of the strings with tweezers, slid it slightly back and forth to loosen, and pulled the light closer, ready to change the subject.  "Hard to see the knot with your hair so thick and dark.  Thought perhaps I should trim only the suture and not give you bald patches here, yeah?"

"Funny."  Sherlock was nervous, leaning forward, shoulders tense.

"I can see fine, no worries."  John slid the pointed tip of the small scissors under the string, snipped.  He set it on a tissue in front of Sherlock's head, in his line of sight.  "Might pull some."  The next three came out easily, and the fourth was stuck a bit, requiring additional tugging, and a small dot of blood came out from that suture site.

"How many are there?"

"I think he put in 16."  John paused in his tweezer exploration as he waited for Sherlock to verbalise his next statement.

"Eleven left, then."  He lifted his head, shrugged at John, who was looking back at him pleased.  "That was better."  

"Have your tea if you want, there's no rush."  John waited as he did.  "Just warn me before lifting your head."

Smile. "Probably wise."

Three of the remaining stitches required extra tugging and resulted in the smallest grimace and sharp intake of breath from Sherlock.  John dabbed at the healing suture line, wiped away a trace of blood, and commented that one of the suture sites was slightly swollen after removal.  "Looks good, the little bit of swelling will go down quickly.  Congrats," John offered, wiping the instruments down, and running moistened gauze one last time over the back of Sherlock's head, binning the trash.  "Your head is now completely your own, self contained without epidermal assistance."

He sat up, tilting his head as if adjusting to the new sensations.  "Feels swollen, the whole thing, truthfully." The corner of his mouth twitched.  "But I know better than to ask for your help with anything swollen.  Or throbbing."

When John didn't immediately bite back an answer in the negative, or admonish him that it was too soon, Sherlock's gaze snapped to John's.  John kept his look steady.

"Does your silence actually mean something this time?"

"It might.  It means you're going to lay on your back and keep your hands to yourself.  It means you have been very patient and that I don't think a minimal, transient heart rate elevation will be deleterious to your health at this stage."

"You wouldn't tease about this."  His voice was actually a little gravelly with anticipation.  

"Of course not."  John stood next to Sherlock, leaned in for a sweet, slightly razor-stubbled snog.  Very quickly, it was a fierce joining of lips, tongues, and hands reaching out, muscled arms holding tight muscle, and John was the one to pull away.  "Go on, then.  I'm right behind you."  John tried to catch his breath as Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom.  He hadn't been nervous for quite some time, but now, after all they'd been through, he hoped it wasn't too soon.

Sherlock was waiting, shirt off, long fingers at his zip, awaiting John's confirmation.

John nodded, tried to act with more confidence than he was feeling, said, "And then on your back, arms like _this_ ," and John folded both of his own arms behind his head, demonstrating what he wanted.  This time it was just going to be quick, and he took a steadying breath as Sherlock complied.

The heat of John's mouth, the ten days or so of abstinence, a few strokes and pressure points of John's hand against Sherlock's groin brought about a quick completion.  Sherlock moaned a few times, body tensed, heels digging into the mattress as he arched his back while - surprisingly - keeping his hands where John had directed him to; he came with a guttural groan.  John stroked gently, held him, sliding his clothed body up along Sherlock's side in the bed, his hands not even attempting to be subtle skimming along Sherlock's femoral artery, letting it rest there as heart rate evened out - 95, 80, thrumming at 65, baseline - for a few moments before withdrawing his fingertips.

"Your head?" John asked, letting his hand drift upward to Sherlock's arms, freeing them from their position.

The slightest squint and tilt of his head gave John most of his answer, and Sherlock answered, "Got a bit _full_ there, didn't last long, feels fine now.  Absolutely fine."

 John leaned up on an elbow, his eyes scanning, hands coming in along Sherlock's head, avoiding the suture line, rubbing slightly.  "You're sure?"

"Sure enough to remind you that you're next."  His hand sought John's zip, and he ground the palm against his tight erection.  John felt an almost immediate response, and knew it wasn't going to take long for him either.  "The big question is, are you going to get your pants off in time."  Sherlock's hand pressed hard, keeping an intense rhythm, his other hand coming to John's over-sensitive nipple, and Sherlock breathed out raspy, sensual words, knowing John's preferences very well by this point, " _Come for me_."  

John rocked his body out of Sherlock's grasp, with a definitive motion, quickly stripped, and then drew Sherlock's hand toward his thickened shaft.  And then followed Sherlock's directions, too.   _Come for me, indeed._

 

Epilogue:

Walking, it turned out, was a hard habit to break, and on this day, John's day off, they'd decided to take a stroll.  There had been an almost full recovery, _almost_.  Headaches returned when the day had been long, stressful, or when Sherlock resisted doing bloody, unreasonable, ridiculous things like eating, hydrating, or resting.  John was about to give up on that and let him just suffer with the bloody head pain.  But the walking was nice.  The park was just ahead when Sherlock's mobile buzzed.  "Lestrade," he said to John, checking.  "Case!  Shall we?"

John grinned.  "God, yes."

"Only about four blocks away, two people injured, perhaps a staged B&E, doesn't sound too dangerous."

"I think you thought that about chasing someone down an alley, if you recall."  John shook his head, and Sherlock briefly got serious.  "If you try to run off without me, though, you'd better hope you can avoid me tackling you.  Because I will be very unhappy.  And very motivated to stop you."

The smile Sherlock gave in return seemed to convey that he would make an attempt to be careful.  "It's a crime scene, not an escaped criminal."  He paused at the kerb, reached out a hand to hold the top rail of the fence.  There was a familiar and good-to-finally-see-again sparkle in his bright blue eyes as he looked at John.  "Ok?"

Since Sherlock's injury, every time he'd thought about leaping over the fence as he was wont to do, John had cautioned him against it. And there was that one close call where John had grabbed his elbow securely to prevent it, damned impulsive git. John knew he was mostly back to normal.  "Probably.  Land softly, though."

And Sherlock braced on one arm, swung both long legs up, leaping effortlessly across the fence.  He stuck the landing and allowed his knees to absorb the shock.  He waited for John to do the same, although with his shorter legs, it lacked some of Sherlock's finesse.  "No problems," he said, and they shared another victorious smile, and they took off toward the address that Lestrade had provided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience in waiting for this last chapter. There are a few chapters that follow, stuff that is hinted at, told from differing PoV. The story, though, is complete. Please let me know if I missed something or there are holes. I have very much enjoyed sharing this on A03.
> 
> The brat diet - Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, and Toast - used as a bland diet for GI distress.
> 
> Be well. No head injuries. Wear a helmet if you ride a bike or motorcycle (or are going to chase a criminal on icy streets in London?) Follow the doctors instructions.
> 
> And mostly, thanks for reading!


	9. Deleted Scene - Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested in these, I would suggest subscribing, as I'm taking these short pieces live as they are polished rather than to show an unfinished work. The work is complete, this is just those few things that I omitted the first go-round due to space, perspective, and time!

Mycroft vs. Nursing Staff

Victoria, the charge nurse there in the ICU that day, looked up from the assignment board as a tall, pushy visitor cleared his throat to get her attention.  Neither spoke as the eye contact became something of a battle of who was going to give in first.  Victoria, unfortunately did not have time to continue to engage in the power struggle.  "May I help you, sir?"

"Are you in charge today?"

"I am.  And you are?"

"There was an admission a few hours back.  Holmes."

"We give information only to family members."

Victoria watched the stone face attempt to stare her down.  Finally, he spoke again.  "I would like to speak to the patient's nurse."

"And you are?" she repeated.  She wondered for the millionth time why some people chose to mess with nurses as if they can be easily walked on or browbeaten.

There was the briefest appearance of a small smile, and Victoria wondered if he worked at being intimidating.  "I have paperwork regarding his durable power of attorney."

There were sounds coming from the corner of the ICU, harsh moans of obvious pain and agitation.  "Excuse me.  I need to go see if I can help," Victoria offered, and set off down the hall not waiting for any kind of response.

He watched her go.  "By all means, then, Victoria."  She was long out of earshot, but he watched as she entered the room where the sounds were originating.  Mycroft Holmes recognised them, of course, and as the other nurse slid the door open, he could hear Dr. Watson speaking, as well, offering direction, trying to placate the patient.  The noise got much worse before it got any better, but eventually Victoria returned.  Her expression was somewhat pained.

She faced him again.  "If all you have is paperwork, I can make a copy, add it to his record."

"Is his nurse available?"

"Are you family?  Updates are for family only."

An eyebrow raised.  "Indeed."  Another staff member came out of Sherlock's room, and the noise level rose - still in distress but less so - until the door slid shut again.  He came to the desk, looked at both of them.  "Mycroft Holmes," the visitor said, by way of introduction.  He did not hold out a hand.  "I am his brother, his legal next of kin."

His demeanor was suddenly a bit more threatening, and what he wasn't saying - about the presence of someone perhaps not legally recognised who was already there at the bedside - became rampantly apparent.

The other nurse spoke up then.  "I'm Jason, his nurse tonight.  Dr. Watson is at the bedside.  If you would like an update, we can find somewhere private to talk."

"Not necessary."

"Do you want to visit?  He's a bit ... restless."

At that word choice, given that Jason was trying to paint less of a negative presentation, Mycroft did actually smirk.  "That won't be necessary."  He held out an envelope that had been in his breast pocket.  "Here is the legally executed notarised POA that establishes Dr. Watson as his primary next of kin.  Any decisions are to be authorised by him.  And he is to be given access to any of Sherlock Holmes' records, history, and to remain bedside whenever he wants.  This is all spelled out quite clearly and signed by the patient months ago."

 Victoria took the envelope, offered to make a copy, and that was also declined.

Jason spoke up then.  "If you don't need anything further, I'm going to ..."  He gestured toward the room, where there had been another yell, but it was quiet again.  "I'll tell Dr. Watson that you're here?"

"No.  He will be in touch when he's ready.  There is no need to mention it."  He stood to his fullest height, then.  "Jason."  There was the slightest tip of his head as he was obviously leaving without visiting.  "Perhaps I will see you later."  Mycroft's mobile buzzed, then, and he gestured in approval.  "Ah, there's Dr. Watson, now."  He took a few steps, pocketing the mobile as he walked away toward the exit doors, still speaking, " _Well done, John_."

++

 

 


	10. Deleted Scene - Molly's Silent Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few things still bristling around, things left out of the story the first run through. It stands complete, this is just a different perspective on a plot point dangled in the completed work.

Molly's Silent Visit

Molly Hooper had just arrived at work as DI Lestrade was leaving. He'd come from the A&E, looked rather distraught, and wouldn't have stopped had she not reached out to touch his arm in concern.

"Greg?" She met his eyes, wondering if his first thought upon seeing her was still the abysmal way Sherlock had treated her at Christmas years ago. The memory still evoked a powerful response in her gut - aggravation mostly, but mortification still had a big chunk. Since that time, she and Sherlock had certainly mended fences, shared a few incredible moments (one noteworthy one that included glass shards, the shaking of absolutely luscious curls, and an extremely powerful, sensual kiss), and completely moved on. Greg did not seem well, she observed, his eyes fatigued, his carriage showing signs of a long night.

"Oh, hey Molly." Healthcare providers and law enforcement officers were acutely aware of the privacy of individuals, so no words were shared immediately.

"Time for coffee? I'm on my way to the cafe, and it looks like you could use one too."

"Yes, long night, going to be a long day, too."

They ordered, and she swiped her name badge to pay before he could stop her. "It's no problem," she assured him. "Can I help with anything?"

"God, I hope not," he said grinning, knowing her domain was the mortuary. "I just left John in the A&E." Molly was quiet, sipped the hot coffee - black, just like Greg took his. "Big head wound, out of his mind. Absolutely terrible."  She watched the slight tremor in his hand, attributed it to the combination of stress, fatigue, and caffeine.

"Sounds awful." She commiserated briefly as he checked an incoming text. "Poor John."

Greg looked over quickly, realised he hadn't been clear. "I have to run."  He sighed, pocketed his mobile.  "And it's not John that's hurt, it's Sherlock."

Molly watched him offer his farewells, nod appreciatively at the coffee, and leave. She could only shake her head, as she said out loud to mostly herself there in the cafe, "I still think it's poor John."

++

She found time later that afternoon, after her shift, to electronically search the inpatients to see if Sherlock had been admitted, was slightly surprised to find him in the ICU. After closing up her offices, she entered the ICU, found a few familiar faces in the staff there, and inquired about Sherlock. His nurse said little, just pointed toward the room, said that she hoped he was finally sleeping.  Molly heard the tactful admonition not to wake him up.

Molly hesitated outside the door, listening intently for any noise within, and finding none, she carefully slid the door open enough to squeeze through. She allowed the door to close behind her, the curtain barely moving to minimise both noise and light. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the nearly dark room and she gradually became aware of the surroundings. Sherlock lay in the bed, one arm tied up over his head, more awkwardly than usual given his long, storkish limbs. His other arm was restrained at his side, but both looked as if he'd struggled and then fallen asleep in a bizarre pose. His legs the same, oddly angled, both shackled. The sheet was mostly caught around his waist, IV, catheter, heart monitor all in place. Pulse oximeter was taped on his finger and readings were normal. His head was turned to the side, eyes closed. Heart rate elevated, breathing too rapidly to be in a REM sleep, or even a normal sleep, then. There was a pad on the pillow, minimal dots of blood across it, all old - unless it was just too dark in the room to see fresh blood.

He was not alone.

John Watson had pulled up a chair next to the bed - and Molly noticed an unoccupied recliner in the corner - lowered the siderail, and apparently lowered his head as well. His head and shoulder draped close to Sherlock's, not touching, but close enough to be aware of both body heat and scent. His face was toward Sherlock's chest, arm barely, just lightly aligned with Sherlock's arm, the barest whisper of togetherness. Sherlock's head moved then as Molly watched, his nose pointed toward the silvery blond hairs on John's head, slightly mussed. Once Sherlock's nose barely brushed up into John's hair, the movement stopped. Molly watched his heart rate settle, then, not coincidentally at all, from 110 to 100, settling just slightly less than that. The respiratory rate of 30 settled into the low 20s. John hadn't moved at all, and Sherlock's legs tugged then, awkwardly, as if trying to settle into a comfortable sleeping position, finding himself unable. John's eyes remained closed, although his body tensed, at the sounds and jerking of the bed from the tugging, but Molly heard a quiet "shhh" sound and watched John's fingers brush over Sherlock's wrist as they feathered alongside them in the bed. The patient settled a bit again, then John relaxed fully too, neither of them reaching all the way into consciousness.

Swallowing hard, Molly backed carefully and quietly out of the intimate scene there in Sherlock's ICU room. They were both in good hands at the moment, and she would try to stop back in another time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: quick observations from Lestrade and Sherlock's nurse (Jason).


	11. Deleted Scene - Lestrade - Motionless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is probably not going to ever tell anyone about this...

Greg whipped the car up against the kerb, seeing several things all at once with sharp eyes. Criminal, running away, as if being chased by the hounds of hell. Body, slumped on the sidewalk, laying on its side, head up against concrete slab of steps there at the corner.

He slid the car into park, flung open the door, jumped out.  His mind, heightened on alert with endorphins, catecholamines, everything poised for fight or flight, took in his options and made the split second decision to attend to the injured man on the ground.  And until he got closer, he did not have confirmation as to who it was.  Even as he approached, saw the Belstaff and long limbs - _long motionless limbs_ \- he was touching the radio mike on his collar, requesting additional vehicle to pursue the man fleeing the scene.

In mere seconds, Greg was at Sherlock's side, taking in again, the body unmoving, legs askew, one arm tucked under him, the other reached out as if to break a fall.  The street light at the corner illuminated poorly, but Greg could very clearly make out the fact that there was a bloody head wound dripping out from underneath dark curls.  His chin was tipped forward, down to his chest.  Time, as time can do, seemed to stand completely still as he paused, seeing so many things at once, taking it in, subconsciously evaluating action needed.  This was the same Sherlock who he'd helped from his drug-induced stupor many years before.  This was the man who had crafted his own role out of nothing, making himself irreplaceable and inimitable and so bloody clever as he arrogantly offered (invaluable) assistance.  This was the man who returned from the dead, partnered with a rock-solid man like John Watson, and together, the two of them had finally, _finally_ , found happiness.

And as much as Greg's mind instantly reminded himself of this, he took in something else.  Something very important.  Something so big that it could drastically change their lives forever.  Something that would need to be instantly remedied or the repercussions would be huge for all involved.  Something that would have collateral damage that Greg knew that perhaps one of them, namely John Watson, would never recover.  Something mission critical.

Sherlock was definitely, absolutely, beyond the shadow of a doubt, _not breathing._

Greg's fingers touched the radio again, and he tapped a button, requested immediate ambulance dispatch to his location.  He was first aid trained, skilled at what he could do, knew beyond measure basic steps of CPR and emergency management, and in those early moments, his training took over without much conscious thought.  He took Sherlock's arm, held his neck steady against possible C-spine injury, log rolled him smoothly onto his back allowing for chest expansion and a now opened, aligned airway.  And then he hesitated just long enough to utter the barest breath of a prayer, _please god, let him live_.

A gasping inhale sounded then, loud to Greg's ears, air moving audibly, strongly, into hypoxic lungs and tissues.  Chest expansion was full and big, and Greg could tell immediately, even in the pale light, how dusky Sherlock had been prior to that first heaving breath.

Greg released his own breath that he didn't realise he'd been holding as Sherlock's colour continued to pink up.  It was long moments before the ambulance arrived, freeing Greg up to continue in the pursuit of justice, to search for the thug who'd done this, to right the wrong.  But before he did, he watched a few moments as Sherlock was loaded onto a gurney, strapped in, and - blessedly - actually beginning to struggle against the aid being rendered.  And that gave Greg even more assurance.  A docile, calm, accepting Sherlock was almost as frightening as a non-breathing one.


	12. Deleted Scene - Crossing paths with Jason

Jason

Victoria, the charge nurse in the ICU, approached Jason in the med room.  "There's an admission for you.  Might end up needing to turf your other patient.  Sounds like this one is combative in the A&E, he's in 4 points."

Jason could only smile, shrug, and it was all fine.  When it came to making assignments such as this, he was often selected for a challenging patient who could potentially act out, but he didn't mind.  Jason was known for his intolerance of any patient threatening the safety of any staff, and a stickler for never compromising patient care.  With his own recent military background, he was still able to effectively pull rank on patient, staff, and visitor alike.  And the occasional doctor, too, when necessary.

While his co-workers readied the corner room, far enough for an agitated patient to not disturb the rest of the unit by placing it centrally, Jason got report from the A&E nurse.  Assault, head injury, CT negative, altered mental status combined with apparently the patient's reputation as some sort of police liaison made for a colorful report.  "But that's not the best part," the nurse told him.  "His partner is a doc in our clinic, put him in a headlock to hold him, so Brian could suture his scalp wound.  Can you imagine?"  Jason did not recognise the name Sherlock Holmes, but finished report, listening to the recommendation from the staff there to engage Dr. Watson's help with the patient if it was needed.  Provided it was in the patient's best interest, Jason found that acceptable of course, and thanked the nurse for the heads up about it.  "The only word he's been able to yell so far has been John's name.  And let me tell you, it was  _heartbreaking_  to listen to that."

After hanging up, Jason tended to his other patient, prepared for a challenging admission, and sipped his coffee.  It was probably going to be a long night.

The patient was delivered, and, as often the case in an ICU, things got a bit hairy before they got better.  The agitation was compounded by a singular bout of emesis just after they'd transferred the patient into a clean-linened bed.  Of course.  But Jason found that Dr. Watson, or  _John_  as he was quick to correct, was immensely helpful and did not have the hostile, often arrogant attitude they'd seen occasionally in other medical families.  He'd not only helped wipe up vomit and change linens, but skillfully placed the indwelling urinary catheter while Jason held Sherlock still enough for the procedure.  Jason realised that nothing about this could have been remotely pleasant for any of them.

It wasn't until near the end of the shift, with no change in assessment of the patient, that Jason recognised something he hadn't seen previously.  When he rounded with the next RN for the shift-change neuro check, John Watson had stood at the foot of the bed watching, feet thirty centimeters apart, hands clasped behind him, head forward.   _Parade rest_.  

Jason approached after the hand-off was complete.  "Military?"

John smiled, his typical left side of his mouth curling upward, at the question, and he deliberately repositioned his feet, and rubbed his hands together as it occurred to him how Jason figured it out.  "Yes.  You too?"  When Jason nodded, also grinning in return, John continued.  "I was discharged a few years back, injured.  Two tours in Afghanistan."

"Where?"

"Kandahar.  Field surgeon for some of it on base, then a rotation close to the front."  John's voice clouded up then, and he forced his mind in a different direction.  "You?  Where did you serve?"

"Riyadh.  I spent quite a bit of time in one of the transition hospitals before coming home."  Their attention shifted to Sherlock, then, as he moaned and flung himself toward the gap in the siderails.  "I think seizure pads may prevent him from more bruising."

"Probably."  

They chatted a bit more until Jason left the room, his shift over, and John's helpful bedside presence looming endlessly ahead of him, with no change in the patient.  Attentive to Sherlock's thrashing and obvious discomfort, John didn't notice that Jason minimally favored one leg as he walked away from them.

Jason fired off a text as he was leaving the hospital to a former army buddy.   **Hey Carl, what was the name of that surgeon in Kandahar, the one who took care of me years ago?  Call me crazy, but I think I may have met him.**

++

The next shift Jason worked, he found the patient the same and John fatigued, discouraged, and alone.  When they had a moment between flurries of agitation, Jason considered his words carefully, and started off, "Captain, yes?"  John's brow came together briefly until he caught up, and when he nodded, Jason then said, "You know, your name and location sounded familiar.  Sent a text to a former unit mate, who jogged my memory.  I'm sorry about your being invalided home."

John pressed his lips together, uncertain he wanted to continue this.  "I try not to think about it too much.  Lot of unpleasant memories.  For a lot of soldiers."

"Staff too," Jason said quietly in agreement.  The eye contact was both cautionary and a warning, as John non-verbally issued an order to stand down there at the bedside.  "I know, I was around for some of those IED explosions.  And I'm not asking."  The pause in conversation allowed John to relax a bit more.  Jason perched on one of the folding chairs there in the room, then, and said quietly, "I do want to tell you, though, I know one of the soldiers very well who you worked on, one of the 'lose a leg, save a life' decisions you made.   He wanted me to tell you thanks.  He's got a wife and kids now."

When Jason dared to look over at John, concerned he'd said too much, John was watching him intently.  There was a tacit agreement to say nothing further at that time, and shortly after that, Sherlock's fever broke again and he required care.  John spent a few minutes staring at Sherlock, deep in thought, his worry so obvious on his face.  And as Jason watched, John's hand rubbed slow circles over the shoulder wound, as if he could fully remove it through secondary intention.  "I appreciate your saying so.  It was..." John swallowed hard, his voice cracking again.  He changed tacks.  "Tell him I'm glad it worked out for him."

"It'll work out for you, too."

Over the course of the shift, Jason had a few minutes to spare, and was able to mostly just stand quietly in the room with John.  No words were necessary, and Jason got the impression that John was both grateful for the physical presence as well as the non-intrusive silence.  A few times over the long night, Sherlock would make distressed sounds in his sleep.  It was something between a moan and a whimper, clearly he was responding to unpleasant stimuli.  When John commented on it, he referenced that he remembered hearing it in the wards in Afghanistan.  Jason nodded, recalling vividly the sounds of emotional and physical pain becoming audible, from those injured and traumatised.  

"Sounds a bit like a wounded puppy," Jason observed, then wished he hadn't spoken out loud.

John was smiling, though, not upset, and agreed.  "Pitiful, you mean?"

"Kind of."  Jason saw John's hands brush lightly over Sherlock's wrist, feather light, in an expression of comfort that wasn't over-stimulating.  Sherlock's fingers were long and somewhat elegant, Jason noticed, and it was an interesting contrast, seeing both hands together there in Sherlock's ICU bed.  While Sherlock's hands were delicate, conversely, John's hands were sturdy, strong working hands, but his fingers were skilled, deliberately dextrous - it was a mesmerising dance of a surgeon's hands.

Jason couldn't stop the thoughts about where John's hands had been over his career, the wounded he treated, the care he rendered.  Jason suspected that those hands would continue to work for the good of those under his care no matter where he was.   He brushed idly at the carbon fiber prosthetic leg that seated snugly against his well-healed, trans-tibial amputation, and knew that he personally had been very lucky when, years ago, he'd encountered _John Watson's hands_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too good to not include, but not crucial to the plot. Most of me wanted to write the encounter with John finding out, or Jason telling him, but this seemed kinder to John.
> 
> Perhaps after Sherlock is all healed, he will figure it out somehow.
> 
> Comments greatly appreciated. Please let me know if I missed something fixable!


	13. Saying Thank You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock finds that saying 'thank you' is not easy, but necessary. And fulfilling.

Mycroft waited at the arranged location with a copy of the relevant portion of Sherlock's medical record printed out in his pocket.  His brother's injury and recovery was going rather well, and now, at almost a month out, things were returning to normal.  Normal, of course, being relative.  Baseline would probably be more apt.  He'd invited Greg Lestrade to meet him at a carefully picked and somewhat out of the way discrete establishment.  Their paths had, of course, crossed many times before, mostly civil, occasionally aggressive, frequently manipulative, and _always_ about Sherlock.  Greg sat down across from Mycroft, resisting the urge to bolt.

"I must ask you about the night Sherlock was injured."

"Is there a problem?"

"Tell me _exactly_ what happened."

++

"Why was I not informed about this?" Mycroft stared at Lestrade, the masterful look of intimidation giving Greg pause but not completely deflating him.

"It didn't concern you.  It resolved, and became just another irrelevant detail."   _And an avoided catastrophe_ , he added to himself.

"Anything involving my brother concerns me.  There could have been serious sequelae of the hypoxia.  He could have been _encephalopathic_."  Mycroft's speech flowed, the words smoothly coming forth.  From other non-medicals, they would have given hesitation or emphasis.  Apparently medical was just one additional language that Mycroft was fluent in speaking.  "It would have been utterly unacceptable.  And equally unacceptable is that I was not informed."

"I'm not apologising, if that's what you're waiting for."  

Mycroft nodded, the slightest smirky smile making a transient appearance before consulting his mobile.  "We'll see if you change your tune when Dr. Watson finds out about it."

A text had been received, and Greg stood up, ready to leave.  An eyebrow raised slightly, and Mycroft's bored voice intoned, "Oh, do be seated, Lestrade.  They've just arrived, and your presence will be required.

John and Sherlock, despite protestations and useless arguments, had been summoned into one of Mycroft's sedans, and shown to the room where Mycroft and Greg waited in silence.  Had Greg more inclination that this was not going to be a pleasant encounter, he would have risen politely as they entered, but as it was, he stayed in his chair, knowing he was headed for more than a few minutes of discomfort.  He didn't think John was going to be upset, but non-disclosure was ... well, still non-disclosure.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock, who did the same in return, and once all were seated, John turned an inquisitive glance toward Sherlock's brother.  He reached inside his jacket pocket, removing the pre-hospital record, handed it to John with a flair.  "I thought you should be fully apprised of the details of Sherlock's attack."  Sherlock suddenly grew interested, and moved to snatch the documents from John's hand, but he was not quick enough.

John sighed, thought about holding them out of line-of-sight, then reneged, holding them so Sherlock could read them along with him.  John scanned them in their entirety, as did Sherlock.  When he was done, Sherlock shrugged, turned back to his brother, "So?" 

Initially Mycroft was silent, as they all watched John's eyes start again at the top of the report, read through the first few lines.  "Dr. Watson, do you want to enlighten my brother?"

The answers of 'no', 'not really', and 'fuck you' came to mind and were dismissed.  Obviously Mycroft had a point to make here, and so John read between the lines and inferred needed information from what was stated.  He answered Sherlock simply, "You'd suffered a respiratory arrest on scene.  When Greg found you, not breathing, he rolled you over to open your airway, and you started breathing again."

Sherlock's glance flicked to Greg then back to John.  "I say again, _so_?"

John wondered what Mycroft's plan was, decided the game was moving too slowly, and said, "Yes, Mycroft seems to feel this is extremely significant for us all to be dramatically gathered here."  When nothing further was offered, John continued.  "You had a brain injury, have had remarkable and almost complete recovery, with no signs of hypoxic encephalopathy.   _None_.  It must have been quickly remedied, and not relayed from EMS to A &E staff, so we didn't even know about it."  A bit of understanding dawned.  "But  _Greg knew_."

Greg considered several options for rebuttal, then decided to let matters alone and remain silent.  John cleared his throat, watching Sherlock for any sort of reaction, and finding none, he leaned closer to his tall, fortunate friend.  "You should probably say something."

The stunned and puzzled look on his face would have been funny if it hadn't been rather sad, John thought.  He sensed eyes on him, tried to connect the dots, and finally settled on, "You could have told us."

"No," John said.  "Not that."

He tried again.  "This was an important thing to leave out, the man could have been charged with attempted..."

"No," John said again, interrupting.

"Oh for God's sake, John."  Sherlock's frustration came out in a rush.  "I have no idea what _you_ feel I need to say here.  It doesn't matter, it ended up being fine.   _I'm_ _fine_."

John's face softened a bit as he realised that, for all the wonderful things about Sherlock, he truly just didn't see things as many do.  "I was thinking more along the lines of..."  He turned to Greg, who was looking tentative and uncertain there at the table, with an expression of concern on his face.  "Something along the lines of 'thank you, Greg', perhaps?"

"He was _doing his job_ , and had he been there from the beginning, I might not..."  Sherlock's irritated voice trailed off as the heel of John's shoe dug into his instep.  

The purse of Sherlock's mouth and the set of his jaw told John all he needed, that nothing more would be forthcoming.  He turned to Greg, then, ignoring both Holmes brothers.  "Thank you for that.  You certainly could have gone after the other guy, and things would be very different for us.  It all could have ended rather badly."  A glance at Sherlock, who positively seethed boredom now - baseline temperament when coerced into something, thank you Mycroft for setting him up poorly - reminded John of what could have been if there had been a delay of care or failure to rescue.  "I can't imagine him any different -- "

Mycroft breathed out a quiet chuckle, "I can," which John ignored.

" -- or worse, _impaired_ , and it means a lot."  John sat back, nearly done.  "You did a good thing for us, and I won't ever forget it."

Greg acknowledged the compliment with a nod and slight smile.  "You're welcome, John."  They shared an amused gaze and tried hard, both of them, not to smile broadly.

Sherlock snorted at that, the deliberate use of John's name alone.  Mycroft watched them closely.  "He _did_ save your life, Sherlock."

 "Oh for God's sake, fine.  Thank you, _Gavin_."

John could only close his eyes.  Indeed, Sherlock was fully and completely his same obnoxious, arrogant self.  And he wouldn't trade him for anything.

++

 Later that morning, Sherlock sat with the computer and the pieces of the electronic medical record that Mycroft had left with John, poring over names, procedures, and test results.  Also included were some of the patient care notes, and Sherlock read over the names of those who had documented about his care and findings.  One of the names came up several times, and Jason was one of the few that Sherlock actually remembered as one of his nurses, after he'd regained his mental processes.  A quick internet search yielded some _extremely_ interesting connections.

++

"Walk with me," he commanded later that afternoon to John, who had just placed a bookmark in the latest mindless drivel of a novel he'd been engrossed in.

"Nah," he responded, stretching, toeing off his shoes then sliding supine onto the couch.  In John's opinion, it was time for a kip.

" _John._ "  The imperious tone was back, the one that drove John - not to mention most of the Yard - to thoughts of physical force.

"Since when do you actually want company."  A statement, definitely not a question.

"Since I've been _brain injured_ ," he said snarkily.  "Maybe I'm feeling the urge to buy cigarettes and I want you to stop me.  Maybe that pointless encounter with Greg has made me afraid something will happen and I want your company as protection."  He snorted.  "And actually, if there is ever the need for mouth-to-mouth in my future, there is only a short list of acceptable rescue breathers."  John rolled his eyes at him, ineffectively as always, and Sherlock pressed on.  "Come with me, I insist that I want your company."

The statement started to sound alarm bells in John's temples.  "You're lying.  What are you up to?"  Sighing, he sat up, slid his feet back into his shoes.  "All right, you manipulative bastard.  I'll go along.  But you owe me later."  John had learned far too often the hard way that to ignore Sherlock could lead to harmful effects.

"Means of payment?"  He was amused now, and John wondered if he'd imagined the deviousness.

"Might involve your mouth and your fingers."

"And yours as well."

"Long as we're clear."

"Fine."

"We could always..."  John gestured toward the hallway "... and walk later?"

"No."

Typically, when Sherlock initiated any kind of an outing, it was purposeful and goal-directed.  So John was a bit surprised when he led the way to one of the playgrounds a few blocks from their home.  Wordless, he found an vacant bench, sat down.

"Why are we here?" John asked finally after several minutes of looking around, curiously.

"Did a bit of investigating earlier.  Hoping to meet someone here."

"For a case, then?"

"No.  For you."

John was abruptly concerned.  "What have you done?"

Ignoring John, Sherlock leaned back in the bench as he said, "Relax, John.  Nothing terrible, of course."

He snickered, just once, at the ridiculousness of that particular statement.  Nothing terrible in Sherlock-speak differed greatly from John's definition of nothing terrible.  Mobile, with full service, check, in case of emergency.  Public area, in case witnesses might be needed.  Not too far from emergency services, and well covered by CCTV, in the event Mycroft would be searching for them later if they were to disappear.

A family was coming pointedly in their direction, and it took John a few minutes to realise why the man carrying the small child looked familiar.  One of Sherlock's nurses approached, Jason, who stopped over and smiled to see them both.  He introduced his wife, and their two sons.  The older one carried a football, and after a few moments, his wife and the kids were nearby having a catch, kicking the ball to each other.

 Jason turned to Sherlock.  "Looking good.  All recovered?"

"Yes."  John watched the exchange, feeling the niggling suspicion that he was missing something.  Sherlock glanced at John, then continued, "Back to my usual miserably-temperamented self, they tell me."

"Shocking.  We never saw that at all in the hospital, did we?" Jason was grinning, and John joined him in the laughter, then, wishing someone would enlighten him.

John let his foot tap Sherlock's just lightly, and the glance they exchanged was slightly frustrated on John's behalf as he non-verbally requested information, for Sherlock to explain.  "You both served in Afghanistan together."

"Right.  He and I had this discussion when you were out of your mind in the hospital."

"I think he left out a rather large part of the story," Sherlock said and then gestured at Jason.

"Right, well," he said awkwardly.  "I think I mentioned I served in Riyadh, and then at a hospital where wounded would transition home."

"Sure," John agreed.  

Jason cleared his throat, and Sherlock gestured at both of them in annoyance.  "Oh, please, the both of you.  Jason, for God's sake, end this suspense and _tell him_."

" _Miserably temperamented_ , yeah, I'm seeing that pretty clear now."  Jason swung his gaze to John, looking steadily at him.  "I spent time in that hospital as a patient.  Damaged foot from an IED, hemorrhaging in a field hospital outside Kandahar.  You amputated my leg, saved my life."

John's eyes flicked to Jason's leg, now seeing clearly the rigid angle of the prosthesis, the atypical wear pattern of his shoe, recalling the slight shuffle in his gait that he had attributed to his carrying his son.  "I'm sorry I don't remember, we treated so many..."

Jason held up a hand, "Oh, I know, and I never actually met you to talk to either.  But I was told your name, of course, and about your skill, watched some others get septic from wound infections from their surgeries, or who needed revisions to be a prosthesis candidate."  

In that moment, John remembered the words Jason had shared.  "You told me, in the ICU, about your friend, it was you?"

"It didn't seem the place to get into it.  You were... distracted."  An apologetic look then at both of them, but Jason continued.  "I was so glad to be able to say thanks.  Even second-hand."  One of his sons ran over then, talking excitedly about the football and about the park and something he'd seen, then scampered away.  "Not a day goes by that I'm not grateful.  And like I was telling Sherlock earlier when he tracked me down, it was just so great to see that you recovered, too."  He nodded at Sherlock.  "I mean, from the concussion, sure, but from the injury that got you sent home, too."  

John exhaled a big breath of peace at the truth of Jason's statement and at the circumstances of life that can bring a person full circle, as it were.  "Sometimes we got a second chance, yeah?"

All three nodded, thinking that, in their own way, all of them had been extremely _lucky_.

And two of the three exchanged glances and decided that getting lucky was definitely in their immediate future, said polite goodbyes to Jason and his family, then went home to Baker Street.


End file.
